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Chap, Copyright No. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 


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HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 








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HER BOSTON 
EXPERIENCES 

A Picture of Modern Boston Society 
and People 


By 


MARGARET ALLSTON 




Illustrated by 

FRANK O. SMALL 





BOSTON 

L» C, PAGE Csf COMPANY (Incorporated) 
MBCCCC 
L • 




20666 

P S' 3 H 


iSgg 

By The Curtis Publishing Company 


Copyright^ igoo 

By The Curtis Publishing Company 


Library of Congress 

Two Copies Received 

JUL 16 1900 

Copyright entry 



SECOND COPY. 

Delivered to 

ORDER DIVISION, 

25 190 0- 


Tur 


Copyright, 


Copyright, igoo 

By L. C. Page and Company 

(incorporated) 

All Rights Reserved 

66130 





LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

“His amused expression lent me the 

COURAGE OF INDIGNATION” FrotltispiecC 
Charles River Embankment from Har- 
vard Bridge 20 

The Symphony Rehearsal ... 34 

The Boston Public Library ' . .44 

Tremont Street Mall in Winter . 70 

“A FAIRYLAND OF LIGHT FLAKY SNOW ” 78 

A Stormy Day for Christmas Shop- 
pers 83 

“ ‘ See the blue lights in her hair ’ 92 

Trinity Church loi 

“He took us to our carriage” . .127 

King’s Chapel 131 

Old Granary Burying-ground . . 137 

Boston Art Museum . . . .152 

Christ Church . . . . . i 59 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

PAGE 

“I . . . DROPPED THE LILIES INTO ONE 

OF HIS hands” 165 

Statue of Washington at the En- 
trance TO THE Public Garden . 166 

The Procession at the Artists’ Fes- 
tival 193 

Commonwealth Avenue from the Pub- 


lic Garden 


199 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 


CHAPTER I 

D uring my first week in Boston I 
received the impression that I had 
found my way into a mammoth woman’s 
club where the principal idea was to doubt 
and weigh every proposition, then disprove 
it if possible. I was oppressed with the 
feeling that I alone was always found want- 
ing, until I discovered how general is the 
individual failure, how deficient every new- 
comer appears in the local eye. Being 
afforded shortly the company misery loves 
from among other visitors to the city, I 
plucked up my spirit and faced the club 
eye with all the force of my Scotch-Eng- 
lish ancestry. In consequence, I discovered 


12 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

how near being a bully Boston is ; that if 
a little boy can fight back the big boy 
backs down. In truth, Boston had not 
meant to fight at all, but was “ merely in- 
vestigating my esoteric being for purposes 
of mutual improvement.” 

This attitude is philanthropic and ethical 
at the root, but its flower is patterned after 
the edelweiss, or some other materialised 
form of frozen virtue utterly cold and sug- 
gestive of a frosted window-pane through 
which one can see neither daylight nor 
sunshine. But on closer acquaintance I 
found, generally speaking, that when the 
sun melted the frost off of the Boston ex- 
terior a right warm heart beat far down 
underneath, and, although its beats were 
not rapid nor enthusiastic, they were regu- 
lar and constant, never swerving from an 
allegiance once taken. 

I was born in New York City, but raised 
in the West, where my father went for 
business purposes during my infancy, he 
himself having been introduced into this 
world in Boston. My brothers grew up 
typical Westerners, filled with contempt 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 1 3 

for any other section of the country, — a 
spirit erroneously imputed exclusively to 
Boston and Philadelphia, but in truth one 
that prevails wherever men are successful 
and happy. Every bit of ground is to the 
man what he makes it. An outsider can 
find his jest in sectional patriotism and still 
respect it. 

The difference between the Boston spirit 
and that of other localities is that a Bos- 
tonian feels an exclusive pride intimating 
satisfaction, minus invitation, while the 
Westerner blows his trumpet calling every- 
body else to have a finger in the best pie 
ever made, thus revealing the touch of 
metropolitan provincialism in one and the 
remnant of pioneer spirit in the other. 

And so I went to Boston confirmed in 
Henry Ward Beecher’s creed, ‘‘ New Eng- 
land is a good place in which to be born, 
but the West is the place in which to grow,” 
and I observed at once the reason for the 
sage’s truism. Bostonians have no desire 
to sprout. As for me, I am by nature a 
sprouter, born with an interrogation point 
behind me. 


14 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

I was twenty-two years old when I first 
went to Boston, to visit the family of my 
father’s eldest brother, Mr. John Allston, 
who at an early age settled into business 
prosperity in Boston. His wife, once Miss 
Drusilla Whetmore, was always, as now, 
my father tells me, undoubtedly a sprig of 
the Mayflower^ whose opinion of anything 
lying outside of Boston, even as far as the 
suburbs, was coldly critical to the extent 
of open hostility. 

Were it possible for one to imagine Aunt 
Drusilla’s refined nasal feature taking so 
vulgar a tilt, one might insinuate that she 
and a few other Bostonians turn up their 
noses at any contemporary not born in 
Summer Street, reared on Beacon Hill, and 
married into the water side of Beacon 
Street. The tide of propriety and pros- 
perity moved along that channel, hence 
this egotistical conclusion reached easily by 
any proper Bostonian fed upon Saturday 
beans and the Boston Evening Transcripty 
the journal which directs the Boston minds 
and morals. 

Uncle John and Aunt Drusilla had two 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 1 5 

daughters, one older than I, one a year 
younger. Dorothy, the elder and least 
proper, had been married a few years when 
I made that visit, and Elizabeth, the 
younger, was only just out of college, there- 
fore in her first season ; while I, but a year 
her senior, had been a “worldling ” for five 
years. I say worldling rather than society 
girl, because I failed to take a degree in 
society. I loved few things better than the 
world, but my affections bounded it on all 
sides, not on the one alone of social posi- 
tion and remote ancestry connected with 
tea and Pilgrims, which were an old story 
to me soon after the date of my cradle. 
Without change of theme and scene I grew 
restless. Accordingly, my wise parents 
gave me what I call a liberal education in 
contradistinction to a college education, 
with which statement I declare myself a 
Philistine at the start, for I chose travel 
instead of school-books. 

My cousins I found as different from 
each other as I was from them. Dorothy, 
upon her marriage to a Bostonian, proper 
in family but almost improper according 


1 6 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

to Aunt Drusilla and other ladies of the 
ancient regime, owing to certain liberal 
propensities noticeable in the latter-day 
Bostonian, fell in with Mr. Granger’s late 
hours, the reading of New York papers, 
intimacies among people who professed the 
arts, and a tendency to ‘‘ run across to the 
other side” every year, with ease and no 
hesitancy. This form of backsliding irri- 
tated Aunt Drusilla, who consequently took 
the more pride in Elizabeth, a girl after her 
own heart, of studious habits, broad, phil- 
anthropic views of life, perfectly settled 
ideas about Platonic friendship and other 
relations with the opposite sex, and small 
sympathy with the restless, inconsequent 
habits of the Grangers, who were content 
to live on Commonwealth Avenue, instead 
of on Beacon Street. 

The Grangers were thoroughly good- 
natured with Aunt Drusilla ; it was safe to 
be so, because her belligerence stopped at 
the end of her tongue. When I arrived 
in Boston, late one October day, my rela- 
tives had just come up from Beverly Farms, 
where they formed a prominent part of the 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 1 7 

Back Bay colony settled along the North 
Shore each summer. Aunt Drusilla told 
me at once that Dorothy and Frederic sent 
word for me to go to them at Lenox for a 
week before settling down in town. You 
know,” added my aunt, looking an almost 
insinuating defiance over her spectacles and 
from under the small white cap she wore in 
harmony with her plain black silk gown, 
whose style and cut were as inevitable as 
Queen Victoria’s bonnet, you know, Mar- 
garet, or you will soon know, that my eldest 
daughter and her husband belong to the 
younger set, with whose indiscretions and 
light purposeless lives I have no sympathy. 
One of Dorothy’s friends told me not long 
ago that she held certain infamous modern 
novels alongside the Bible in her estimation 
of moral purpose. Any woman who could 
find a grain of good in an artist’s model, or 
congeniality with Bohemian tastes, is not 
the woman for my daughters to associate 
with. I never hesitate to tell Dorothy how 
I feel about these matters, but with small 
effect, I fear.” 

Aunt Drusilla looked over at Elizabeth 


1 8 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

with a sigh. At the moment Elizabeth 
was reading a note. Presently she said : 
“Mother, Warren Hartwell writes to an- 
nounce his return some time after Thanks- 
giving.” 

Aunt Drusilla looked unusually well 
pleased for her, I thought. “ This is inter- 
esting intelligence, Elizabeth,” she replied, 
and turning to me, continued : “ This gen- 
tleman of whom we speak, Margaret, is a 
very old friend of our family. He and my 
daughters were playmates together, even 
though he is much their senior ; quite as 
his mother was my playmate on Summer 
Street, when our parents lived side by side. 
He went to Europe last spring with Doro- 
thy, Frederic, and Elizabeth, but did not 
return with them in September. Dorothy 
never returns to town until Thanksgiving. 
The young people of this generation have 
little or no appreciation of home life.” 

I entirely agreed with this last senti- 
ment, although perhaps not in the spirit 
emphasised by my aunt. The gifts of the 
gods seemed to me wasted upon a blunted 
appreciation. When, late in October, one 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 1 9 

walks about that part of Boston known as 
the Back Bay, the part given over to the 
social and moneyed elect, one must ques- 
tion the pride of Bostonians in their homes 
covered with masses of burnished crimson 
ivy unrivalled even by that celebrated as 
Nature’s embellishment of English homes 
and ruins. If the owners felt the clear 
gold of the autumn air as I do they would 
not leave their homes boarded up until 
Christmas time and so know Boston only 
in its ugliest moods, merely to follow the 
dictates of Mrs. Grundy, whose guidance 
is seldom in sympathy with Nature’s 
laws. 

Boston is essentially the autumn city of 
the world. The air is full of sea ; the sky 
is radiant with sunlight and deep blue or 
white floating islands ; restful vigour per- 
meates the atmosphere. One can scarcely 
help living to one’s utmost possibilities at 
that time of year in this most attractive of 
cities. Go and stand on Harvard Bridge, 
looking off toward Boston, half an hour 
before sunset. See the glorious sky echoed 
in colours in the waters of the Charles 


20 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

River. The sun, still peeping over Corey 
Hill, shines in at the rear windows of the 
mile of houses lining the embankment. 
To the left rises the gilded dome of the 
State House, surmounting Beacon Hill and 
its pregnant past ; to the right, see the 
long sweep of the river down which comes 
rapidly a boat-crew, stroking skilfully. 
Behind lie Cambridge and Cambridgeport, 
less interesting at this point, because of 
factories, smoke-stacks, and church steeples 
mingled in a crude, jarring mass at that 
distance ; and far off at the north Bunker 
Hill Monument stands out, pointing to the 
past. But looking only on the Boston side 
of the picture, what other American city 
can boast a more picturesque view in the 
very midst of its habitable quarter It 
was Charlotte Cushman who requested to 
be buried in such a position that her rest- 
ing-place might eternally overlook this view 
of the city she loved best. It is easy to 
understand the spirit of her desire either 
when standing beside her grave in Mount 
Auburn, across the Charles River, or stand- 
ing thus on Harvard Bridge while the sun 



CHARLES RIVER EMBANKMENT FROM HARVARD BRIDGE. 












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HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 23 


fades. The views are identical, with only 
a difference of distance. 

“There may be other cities of beauty 
and fame, but they are not Boston, just as 
heaven may be interesting although it is 
not Boston,” cries the native, and standing 
on that spot even the Philistine echoes the 
sentiment warmly. 

Boston had been to me, during all my 
life previous to the period these random 
reminiscences will cover, a city shrouded in 
history, in whose streets I expected to meet 
Concord philosophers recognisable at a 
glance ; also many people resembling the 
Alcott family, and at least ghosts of Rev- 
olutionary heroes. 

My first shock came when I found my 
relatives distinctly modern and unromantic, 
— in few ways different from other people. 
I had seen them too seldom to retain a 
clear impression of their personality. It 
was to please my father that I accepted 
their invitation to spend the winter with 
them. 

Aunt Drusilla’s invariable costume was 
quaint and suggestive, and her absorption 


24 her boston experiences 

in what she called affairs of serious con- 
sequence ” was typical of the Boston repu- 
tation, but Uncle John was a business man 
of regular habits, who marched sedately 
over Beacon Hill to his office, with his 
neighbours, at the same minute every day. 
He lunched so long, sat in his club so long, 
dined so long, read the Transcript so long, 
and slept longer. A sense of humour was 
his only means of diversion. He and I 
understood each other from the first. 
When I asked him how the husbands of the 
Boston women reformers felt about their 
wives' work, he replied, quizzically : Ob- 
serve me, my dear, and draw your conclu- 
sions. We simply attend the closer to our 
own business the more they attend to other 
people’s. A balance must be struck on all 
questions of interference, you know.” 

When I met people I listened closely 
for evidences of unusual culture.” I was 
accustomed to the jargon of Parisian artist 
life, to the metaphysics of Germany in a 
small way, and now was prepared for an ethi- 
cal conclusion upon all matters from Brown- 
ing down to pie. Imagine my astonishment 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 25 

when I found Uncle John absorbed in 
stocks and the pre-Raphaelite cult ; aunt 
in managing the boards of several chari- 
table institutions and in raising money for 
the purpose of furnishing newsboys with 
an extra pair of Sunday trousers; Eliza- 
beth in class reunions, the inside workings 
of “ the Pud,” otherwise known as the 
Hasty Pudding Club of Harvard College, 
and two literary clubs, for which she was 
writing papers on Gladstone’s Policy ” 
and ^‘The Lassitude of the Feminine Ma- 
jority,” respectively ; Dorothy in her dress- 
maker, the Country Club, balls and private 
theatricals, but principally in Spanish poo- 
dles and fox terriers. Everybody seemed to 
have an object in life, as I had expected, but 
what amazing hobbies some of them rode ! 

Dorothy canvassed canine habits as seri- 
ously as her mother governed charity or- 
ganisations. I soon learned how immaterial 
was the subject in hand provided it were 
dealt with mentally and seriously. Pups, 
puddings, or piety were equally absorbing 
questions. Clothes were not a popular 
subject, except among individuals ; they 


26 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

were taken for granted, as one might easily 
imagine when observing the population of 
Boston. Conversation relative to moneyed 
interests was tabooed among my aunt’s 
friends. Money, also, was taken for 
granted. Dollars are, in truth, a vulgar 
subject, and indubitably Bostonians are the 
most refined among Americans at that 
point. 

My cousin Elizabeth was considerable 
of an athlete. Her particular friend was 
a girl of twenty-three who, after being 
graduated from the Harvard Annex, took 
degrees in Hebrew and mathematics at 
Oxford, England, for no apparent reason, 
but as a means to higher education in 
mental gymnastics. She prided herself 
upon entire ignorance of purely feminine 
occupations. Her favourite personal nar- 
rative was a story of how, upon one occa- 
sion at Oxford, she was going to some 
affair with a masculine fellow student. As 
she put on her gloves a button burst its 
stitches. She was in despair ! Her land- 
lady was out ; what was she to do She 
never had sewed on a button in her life. 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 2 / 

The man said, Get me a spool of thread 
and a needle. I will sew it on for you.” 
She found those requisites in her land- 
lady’s sewing-basket, and stood watching 
the man sew on the button. This she 
considered a distinctly clever situation, and 
she never for a moment realised what any 
one else might think of her position in the 
matter, or what a disagreeable phase of 
modern affectation she illustrated. Aunt 
Drusilla came very near sniffing when she 
heard this story, but she was too well-con- 
nected to do that, other than mentally. 

With Elizabeth and this Miss Renshaw, 
I began my season in Boston by frequent- 
ing the golf links at the Country Club. 
Miss Renshaw, being a many-time medalist 
at the sport, viewed my mediocre and er- 
ratic playing with open contempt for femi- 
nine incapacity. She beat The Colonel ” 
at every chance, and her work with the 
brassy competed fairly with the men’s. 
Elizabeth and I were steeped in admiration 
for her skill on the putting green, but I 
must confess my feeling stopped short 
there. 


28 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

Finally, after a week of preparatory par- 
tisan enthusiasm, the Harvard- Yale football 
game came off. Had the country been 
celebrating the return of heroes from a 
great military or naval contest, the City of 
Boston could not have been more excited 
or generally upset than by the advent of 
these athletic heroes. The populace, the 
lap-dogs, and the shops were decorated 
either in crimson or blue, the respective 
colours signifying the sympathies of the 
wearer. Business was carried on with 
divided interest. Even elderly Bostonians, 
who had never seen a football game until 
past their half-century, were eager for the 
fray. One suburban mother of nine boys 
declared in print that she sent each of her 
sons on to the field, regardless of broken 
noses, as she would have sent them into 
the tournaments of old, certain of their 
physical and moral development as the 
result. 

By noon the electric cars running across 
Harvard Bridge had no standing-room left, 
and every Bostonian who could in con- 
science get to the grounds was on his way 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 29 

over in traps, carriages, wagons, on bicycles 
and, as a last resort, on foot. We went in 
a party, and I was so pleased to see actual 
enthusiasm among a people unsuspected 
of that characteristic that my attention 
centred almost entirely upon the spectators 
and their ardent interest in what proved to 
be a one-sided and rather tame game. 
That night the city was given over to the 
gambols of the successful and defeated 
heroes, for in football a man is always a 
hero, regardless of achievements. The 
entire lower floor of one of the variety 
theatres was sold out to college men. 
They attended in a body, and I could not 
see that anybody was the better for that 
fact the next day ; however, the lads had 
opportunities to do worse than they did, — 
may it be said to their credit, — and the fun 
was a part of the occasion. I felt like a 
grandmother among them, but my cousin 
and her friend treated them without ex- 
ception as respected seniors, giving the 
boys a taste of conscious heroism none too 
good for their dispositions in the bosom of 
the family. I devoutly wished I were 


30 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

eighteen, and given to hero-worship my- 
self, for then I might have tasted the 
exhilaration and blood-curdling enthusiasm 
produced upon the majority by a Harvard 
or Yale football team. 

A day or so later I had a novel experi- 
ence. Walking alone on the Beacon Street 
extension, I felt something run past me 
attired in white linen trousers, falling far 
short of the knee, and an armless, throat- 
less shirt or sweater. One after another 
of these scantily dressed male creatures 
passed me by on the run. I had about 
decided to tell an approaching policeman 
that the inmates of some lunatic asylum 
were running away, when I was picked up 
by Elizabeth, in the carriage, and she ex- 
plained that the men were the Hare and 
Hounds Club, taking a run across country. 
Later I discovered that these lightly clad 
individuals, with no hats and with bare legs, 
were to be encountered at any moment in 
the streets of New Boston. One soon gets 
over the shock. 

Upon one other subject besides football 
all Bostonians seemed to find common 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 3 1 

ground — the Symphony Concerts. I soon 
found that the Symphony Orchestra was, 
after proper ancestry, the most universal 
pride and boast of Boston and its suburbs. 
The only Bostonian I ever knew who saw his 
home from the outside warned me to ob- 
serve what he called the blossom of Puri- 
tanism, the Boston face,” upon the first 
occasion of my hearing the Orchestra. As 
usual, in Uncle John’s family, the women 
attended the auction sale of season seats 
for these concerts, where enormous pre- 
miums are paid. The women do every- 
thing of that description in Boston, and 
the men admire their energy. Each of us 
had a season ticket for the public Rehear- 
sal on Friday afternoons, which occasions 
are, without doubt, the most fashionable 
series of events in the Boston winter. 

Every day I became more convinced 
that society, so-called, the elect few who 
constitute themselves ‘‘ the people ” of a 
city, was of less collective importance in 
Boston than in any other American city. 
I found that these good people lived fenced 
off in their Back Bay district, following a 


32 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

life distinct from the heart-throbs and pulse, 
of the city. Their very separateness de- 
barred them from rights of leadership. 
Nobody else in the community cared a rap 
what they thought or felt except by way 
of gossip, and many of the actual descend- 
ants of Massachusetts forefathers had no 
participation in the life of the Back Bay 
or Beacon Hill. Exclusiveness sacrifices 
dominance to the pleasure of me and my 
son, John.” 

Boston does not develop its character 
through the medium of its aristocracy alone. 
It is the most democratic city in America, 
if not in the world. It is both the cradle 
and nurse of independence. Evidences of 
these truths were set forth in the costumes 
of the feminine majority in evidence at 
that first Symphony Rehearsal I attended. 
All of fashionable Boston was present, and 
still the audience did not look fashionable 
from a metropolitan standpoint. 

There were so many women ! If you 
could hear the plaint of that exclamation 
you would understand at once how oppress- 
ive in its preponderance is the femininity 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 33 

of Boston. ‘‘ Woman ” is stamped on every 
inch of Massachusetts ground. She is as 
inevitable as the seasons. She is more 
difficult to escape than the Mormon eye. 
She inculcates and illustrates the principles 
of freedom all the way from her emancipa- 
tion creed to the shape of her waist and 
the length of her stride. 

Boston Music Hall is a unique edifice. 
One is tempted to attribute its existence to 
that same Puritanical spirit which urged 
the Pilgrims into a form of worship bare of 
ornamentation: there must be no ‘‘fix- 
ings ” to distract the worshipper from his 
purpose. So with Music Hall : nothing 
could be uglier ; no interior could be more 
barren and unproductive of aesthetic feel- 
ing. Imagine a building, holding several 
thousand people, built at the intersection 
of what in other cities would be called the 
four alleys of a block. This building is stiff, 
grimy and unattractive, without ornament 
inside or out. The Rehearsal is merely 
the first of two concerts given weekly dur- 
ing the season except at intervals when 
the Orchestra is away “ con cert ising.” 


34 her boston experiences 

The hour set for the Rehearsal is half- 
past two. At half-past one the doors are 
surrounded by a crowd of musical students 
and others struggling for a first place in 
line. When the doors open there ensues 
what looks like a panic in a burning build- 
ing. Each one in the tussle grasps his 
admission ticket, worth twenty-five cents, 
and certifying a seat in the second balcony 
reserved for that purpose, or a few square 
inches on the floor for one’s feet in any 
part of the house. Most of this eager 
throng carry books with which to occupy 
themselves during the long wait before 
them, and quite evidently as a means of 
defence during the scramble for the best 
seats. I doubt that the fine new Music 
Hall now in process of erection will seem 
as dear to the student’s heart as this 
shabby hall filled with memories. 

At half-past two the doors invariably 
close upon a packed house. Men and 
women stand during the entire programme, 
sandwiched side by side, and with no sup- 
port but their enthusiasm. This audience 
alone suggests youth. Everywhere else 



THE SYMPHONY REHEARSAL 


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HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 37 

in Boston the people seem to have been 
born mature, but at the Rehearsal, although 
the Boston face is in the majority, hun- 
dreds of young girls, clad in their brightest 
and best, give a butterfly effect to the 
assembly not visible in the countenance of 
the individual. The Symphony men have 
sauntered into their places upon a plain, 
barren platform by the time the clock, 
stationed opposite upon the first balcony, 
indicates five minutes before half-past two. 
There is a social murmur all over the 
house. The hands of the clock point to 
silence. The conductor walks out on the 
stage amid an immediate lull of voices and 
a conservative hand-clap. He bows, turns 
about, raises his baton, quiet reigns over 
the multitude, the stick falls, and the re- 
markable body of men begin their story 
of beauty conveyed by every shade of emo- 
tional colour, artistic insight, and technical 
perfection possible to ensemble playing. 
The audience is wrapped in this atmos- 
phere for nearly two hours. No one en- 
joys, in the ordinary acceptation of that 
term, but every one respects, exalts, bends 


38 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

the knee, imbibes — yea, even unto a state 
of worship known at Beyrouth. And that' 
is why Boston is the most musical city in 
America. 


CHAPTER II 


O one can understand the force of the 



T ^ trite saying that the wind is tempered 
to the shorn lamb everywhere but on Boston 
Common until one has put oneself in the 
place of the lamb on that spot, or on any 
other point of attack in Boston. No wind 
is so lowering to the moral tone, so destruc- 
tive of wits and promotive of temper, as a 
northeast tempest in the autumn, or the 
whirlwind intermitting its fury every five 
minutes from January until May in Boston. 

It was in November that I started out 
for my first contest on foot with a Boston 
nor’ east er. Knowing full well Aunt Dru- 
silla’s disinclination to get the horses wet, 
— no matter what became of the individual, 
as is the prevailing attitude toward horses 
in Boston and other places, — I determined 
to walk the half mile leading to the Public 


39 


40 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

Library, not being timid about any weather 
I had hitherto encountered. Well protected 
in rain clothes that I had found sufficient 
even in Scotland, I started out to do some 
reading on my own specialty in the quiet, 
studious reading-rooms of the crowning pos- 
session of Boston, — its library. 

After taking a few steps along the side- 
walks I began to compare myself to the 
shorn lamb ; after walking two blocks I 
experienced the exaltation of a martyr. 
The wind came from every direction, even 
from under my feet. I was lifted from the 
ground and pitched against the corner of a 
house. My umbrella succumbed judiciously 
at the start ; it turned wrong side out and 
broke a rib, indicating my probable con- 
dition if I pursued the enterprise. I 
dragged the remains by my side, holding 
on to my hat, and brushing my dishevelled 
hair out of my eyes with the other hand. 
Then the rain fell upon me with the force 
of a dozen shower baths, reminding me of 
the Englishman who insisted he had never 
seen rain until he reached Boston. For- 
tunately, I was nearing my destination, 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 4 1 

and proving at the same time that grit 
strengthens with use, as does every other 
attribute. 

The climax of my woes came when my 
boot lace untied and began to flap around 
my ankles, tripping me up at close inter- 
vals. This was unendurable. I stopped at 
a stoop, unmindful of possible spectators, 
emphatically and with explosive wrath 
dropped the remains of my umbrella on 
the lower step, muttering to myself while 
my hair streamed before my eyes, damp 
and draggled with the rain ; then, planting 
one foot on the sidewalk, the other on the 
second step of the stoop, I tried to tie 
the string as deliberately as possible under 
the circumstances. Needless to say, the 
string was refractory. My face turned 
red, my temper boiled over, and I fear 
I stamped. Just then I looked higher 
than my foot, up toward the drawing- 
room windows of the house, and met the 
eyes of a man standing there, evidently 
enjoying my demonstration. His amused 
expression lent me the courage of indigna- 
tion. I returned to the attack, succeeded. 


42 HER BOSTON- EXPERIENCES 

and marched on without another look up- 
ward, but showing an indignant back. At 
that moment I received an indelible impres- 
sion of the Boston man. 

At any other place in the world a man 
would have come to my rescue with the 
offer of an umbrella ; but this one knew 
nothing about my family, consequently it 
would have been improper for him to offer 
assistance to me as a disconnected woman 
in distress. I had noticed this tendency 
toward vacuous indifference in all the Bos- 
ton men I had met, but laid it to the excess 
of female adulation consequent upon a pro- 
portion of one man to every twenty-five 
women ; now I knew it was something 
deeper, something probably hereditary, ex- 
plained by the expression of ‘‘ no in- 
tentions,” adopted generally by the male 
members of the Boston population. I real- 
ised at once how much I despised that man, 
and how I longed to teach him and his fel- 
low citizens a few lessons. However, my 
further struggles with the elements kept 
me employed until I reached the library, 
after a collision with a pedestrian walking 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 43 

with an umbrella held open horizontally, 
thus obscuring his vision. He made no 
apology, but, giving me an annihilating 
glance, staggered on. 

Even in a nor’easter the Boston Library 
and the other buildings skirting Copley 
Square bear out their reputation. Accord- 
ing to the verdict of architects, they com- 
bine to form the most interesting square 
architecturally in America. On a bright 
day in autumn a colourist revels in the bril- 
liant-hued ivy massed upon the cosy church 
and adjacent residences bordering one side 
of the square in harmony with the soft 
brown tones of wonderful Trinity Church 
diagonally opposite. Those in search of 
pure lines find content in the classic form 
of the library, emphasised by contrast with 
the Art Museum and the latter-day edition 
of the historic Old South Church, whose 
congregation, after several removals, has 
settled in new Boston, a long distance 
from the original site of the church. Cop- 
ley Square may justly be called the head 
of Boston ; exactly where its heart lies no 
one knows positively. 


44 her boston experiences 

After drying out in the periodical read- 
ing-room, I forgot myself in my satisfaction 
with everything about me. I walked back 
to the entrance for another look at Sir 
Harry Vane standing in his niche, — only 
a cavalier in bronze, but even so, replete 
with a grace, nobility, and charm I had 
failed so far to find in any other Bostonian. 
I felt sure he would not have left me on 
his stoop to wrestle unassisted with con- 
founding conditions. Up the noble stair- 
way, guarded by couchant lions, I then 
went, sitting down for a few admiring 
moments to rest my eyes upon the soft- 
tinted marbles and the mural pictures of 
Puvis de Chavannes on one side, and on 
the other the court where the misunder- 
stood Bacchante poised for a short time in 
all of her unsurpassed loveliness. I saw 
her but once, and have only an exquisite 
memory of the most perfect modelling and 
incarnate loveliness ever rejected by expo- 
nents of frozen virtue. Having the after- 
noon before me, I took the elevator for 
another period of enjoyment before Sar- 
gent’s decorations, unequalled, in my 



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HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 4 / 


opinion, by any of the other choice pos- 
sessions of the library. One learns the 
history of religion from the humanitarian 
standpoint in a study of Sargent’s strong 
execution of a thoughtful conception. His 
prophets are inspired men, not grotesque 
supernatural beings. 

I was especially interested in Sargent’s 
work because, a few months previous, I 
had dined in London with some particular 
friends of his. My hostess told me how 
one day Sargent came to them in a mood 
of artistic despair, insisting that he had 
conceived an idea beyond his powers of 
execution. He explained, then gloomily 
insisted that he was going home to destroy 
the entire batch of drawings. They pleaded 
with him not to do so until they had seen 
them. He consented, and, spurred on by 
their encouragement, finished his noble 
design. This remembrance gave me food 
for long thought as I stood before that 
splendid expression of a great man’s great- 
est idea, developed through a lifetime. 

Time was moving on, and before going 
down-stairs I saw more of interest in vari- 


48 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 


ous rooms than I could well digest in an 
afternoon. In the delivery-room, later, 
I looked again at Edwin Abbey’s graceful 
narrative of the pursuit of the “ Holy 
Grail,” in a series of mural paintings. 
His work is highly decorative, but the 
story has been better told before, through 
the same medium of expression. It seemed 
to me that every American should be proud 
of the Boston Library, with its democratic 
inscription across the exterior front : ‘‘ The 
Public Library of the City of Boston. 
Built by the People and Dedicated to the 
Advancement of Learning.” 

I found the books I wanted in Bates 
Hall, and settled myself for an hour’s 
indulgence in my private hobby, which 
I keep concealed from the general eye 
as closely as I would veil a sin, for I have 
a horror of seeming masculine. Wishing 
to keep my place in one book of reference, 
while I took another down from the shelf 
near by, I looked around for a book-mark, 
but none was to be seen. Opening my 
money purse, the only object I saw that 
would answer the purpose was a small 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 49 


photograph of myself, which I carried to 
please my mother while away from her, 
for the purpose of identification in case of 
murder or sudden death, both of which 
possibilities were ever present to her mind. 
I slipped the photograph into the place. 
The book fell to of its own weight. I moved 
a few steps away and reached for another 
book. At that moment a hand fell on my 
shoulder with a masculine force, and in a 
deep-voiced whisper — no audible speech 
being permitted in the hall — some one 
said : 

Bon jour^ mon enfant! How in the 
name of all that’s wonderful did you ever 
arrive at the Hub ” 

Upon looking back rather startled, I saw 
the face of the strangest woman I ever 
knew. Yes, it certainly was Frances 
Thurlston, whom I had known two years 
before in Paris, where I spent nearly a 
year with my mother’s sister. To any one 
who knew Frances it would be needless 
to say she was an unmarried woman. She 
is the only professed man-hater in whose 
professions I put any faith. Probably 


50 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

the most masculine of women herself, she 
merely tolerated the sex whose ways she imi- 
tated as her choice between two evils. She 
said it was a good thing to be a man, but 
the worst thing possible to endure a man. 
Frances must have been forty-five, at least, 
at that time. She came as near being an 
artist as any one could who escaped. She 
did many things well without excelling 
in any one thing, except criticism of other 
people’s work. Among the artists in Paris 
she was considered the ablest woman critic 
who had ever lent her keen insight to their 
acceptance or rejection. She wrote in a 
bold, vigorous style; she painted better 
than an amateur ; she played several 
instruments fairly well ; but inherited 
means had killed her artistically. She 
was rich ; necessity is the mainspring of 
genius. Frances had no living relative 
except a married sister, of whom she spoke 
occasionally. For women she cared in 
almost a masculine way. I had been one 
of her fancies the winter I spent in Paris. 
Her tailor-made broadcloth costumes, worn 
with white shirt-fronts and standing collars, 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 5 I 

emphasised her large-featured, boyish face 
as did her manly attitudes — whether 
affected or natural I never knew. They 
were always the same. 

Drawing in a surprised breath, I ex- 
claimed aloud : ‘‘ Did you fall with the rain 
or come in the wind ? ” 

’Sh ! ” she answered, cautioning me. 

Don’t talk out loud in here. Come into 
the corridor and we’ll have it out.” For- 
getful of books and photographs, I gathered 
together my belongings and followed her. 
We settled ourselves in one of the marble 
embrasure seats overlooking the court near 
the lions. She began: You’re looking 
the equal of yourself. How did you get 
here .? ” 

I told her my situation. 

Going in for the ‘ smart set,’ are you ? ” 
was all she replied, disdainfully. I never 
thought you belonged there — you have 
too much of the real thing in you. Know 
Mrs. Bobby Short and the Hazeltine Gresh- 
ams, I suppose, and the rest. They try 
hard to change the temperature of Boston, 
but nothing will; under another century 


52 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

of new blood. It’s only a big town affect- 
ing city airs, just as a country girl dresses 
to go to the village.” 

I confessed that I had met the people 
she mentioned, but that Aunt Drusilla 
seemed to belong to another set. 

“ Humph ! ” she replied. Old Beacon 
Hill holding up her skirts for fear of con- 
tagion. The truth is, Mrs. Robert Short 
does more toward the advancement of this 
place in civilisation than a whole woman’s 
clubful of the rest. She educates striving 
artists, loans her valuable books and pictures 
upon every occasion, and does a deal of 
good with one hand the other doesn’t know 
about.” 

‘‘ Then why do the Boston women have 
so much to say about her ” I asked. 

‘‘Jealous ! ” Frances grunted. “ Did you 
ever hear of that failing ? The fact is, Mrs. 
Short is not really in her proper sphere in 
life, any more than I should be in her 
shoes. She is an artist, every inch of 
her. She feels some of the truths we 
are all seeking in beauty-land. If she 
weren’t manacled by a masculine attach- 


HER BOS TO AT EXPERIENCES 53 


ment I dare say she would live as I do. 
There is just the same thing the matter 
with her there is with me — nothing more. 
I live my life as I like ; she is compelled to 
temporise and meet * The Hub ’ half way. 
I met her once in Rome and liked her ; 
most people do. I say, Margaret, Tm 
glad you aren’t locked to a masculine 
attachment yet ! ” 

I assured her of my lingering freedom, 
and insisted upon knowing something about 
herself. 

‘‘I’m a poor subject of conversation,” 
she growled, amiably. ‘‘Nothing to tell. 
Same life. After the crowd broke up in 
Paris last year, I got a working fever on. 
Decided I’d let it off in the land of ‘freaks,’ 
the only city I belong to in America. My 
sister lives here, too, and one must see 
one’s kin once a century. She’s Mrs. 
Howard Drake. Know her ? ” 

Yes, I had met her. Was she visiting 
her sister ? 

“Visiting! I visit?” she returned. 
“You know me better than that! I 
haven’t stopped over night with anybody 


54 her boston experiences 

in twenty years. No ! I have an apartment 
with a studio, and Tm digging. You may 
not believe it, but my fever hasn’t worked 
off in a year. If I could lose my money 
now I’d be famous yet. You come along 
with me. I’ve a cab down-stairs. Come 
home with me and see my picture. I 
found a model in the North End equal 
to a little Florentine I had once at Julien’s 
years ago. Then you must come to one of 
my ‘Sundays’ and meet some ‘freaks.’ 
You know I always gather my own kind 
about me. There are plenty of them in 
Boston.” 

That night at dinner I told of my meet- 
ing with a friend I had known in Paris, 
going somewhat into details in regard to 
her personality. Uncle said, “A manly 
female, I should judge. I have rooted ob- 
jections to the species.” Elizabeth turned 
her slow eyes upon me with the question, 
“ What does she do ” 

“Pretty much everything but go into 
society, which she calls a large dish of 
‘ giggle, gabble, gobble, git,’ quoting Doctor 
Holmes,” 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 55 

I should like to study a person possess- 
ing those characteristics,” replied Elizabeth 
earnestly. 

“Margaret,” spoke up Aunt Drusilla, 
“ I hardly think your mother would care 
to have you pursue the acquaintance of 
such a person in America. Such acquaint- 
ances may do for the other side, but not 
in Boston. A woman of no connections — ” 

“Pardon me!” I interrupted, playing 
my trump card, “but Miss Thurlston is 
a sister to Mrs. Howard Drake.” 

“The Howard Drakes of Marlborough 
Street } ” inquired Aunt Drusilla, looking 
interested. “ That is altogether different. 
Howard Drake’s mother was an Osgood of 
Beacon Hill, and further back her mother 
lived near us on Summer Street. I remem- 
ber Frances Osgood’s great-grandfather’s 
portrait, painted in the costume of an Eng- 
lish officer of the Guards. The Osgoods 
were not Revolutionary patriots, but they 
were of distinguished English connections. 
Would you care to call upon Margaret’s 
friend, Elizabeth } I never visit strangers, 
you know. I have not even visited my 


56 HER BOSTON- EXPERIENCES 

cousin, Mary Norris, in Brookline, for ten 
years. It is such a journey out there, and 
my life is so fully occupied with larger 
duties.” 

Elizabeth replied that she would be 
pleased to know Miss Thurlston, provided 
‘<her day” did not interfere with club 
work, or the Symphony, or the Cambridge 
Conferences, or a new course of lectures 
on Browning, or a dozen other plans 
arranged for the winter. 

What are the Cambridge Confer- 
ences V I asked. 

Uncle John replied, with the laughing 
light I had seen in his eyes once or twice 
before : “ They are seats of learning, my 
dear, where prophets ladle out culture with 
spoons called ethics, and the congregation 
worships Buddha.” 

‘‘John!” said Aunt Drusilla, severely, 
“how can you speak jestingly of one of 
the finest institutions in Cambridge ? The 
Conferences, Margaret, we attend on Sun- 
day afternoons for the purpose of broaden- 
ing ourselves along all ethical lines of 
thought. These meetings are deeply inter- 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 57 

esting. Elizabeth rarely misses one, and I 
know she will be glad to take you as her 
guest.” 

“ Yes, you must not fail to go, my dear,” 
returned Uncle John, as he left us for the 
library, where he spent most of his even- 
ings alone. <‘Of course, Elizabeth only 
goes for the ethics, but one of her friends 
told me it was ‘perfectly fine,’ that ‘lots 
of young professors and other college men 
go, and we have a jolly time afterward.’ 
You can sleep through the meeting in 
anticipation of ‘ afterward,’ Margaret. That 
is the way I enjoy myself at ethical 
societies.” 

Uncle John went out. Aunt Drusilla 
looked resigned, and Elizabeth picked up 
a book. 

The next day I opened my pocket book, 
and for the first time remembered I had 
left my photograph in the library book. 
Not for several days could I find time to 
get to the library, owing to our excess 
of engagements. In two days I attended 
the New England Woman’s Club, where 
the members no longer knit and crochet in- 


58 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

formally while the programme goes on, as in 
former days, but attend strictly to literary 
business according to parliamentary law ; 
another Symphony Rehearsal, a dinner, a 
lecture at a private house upon the archi- 
tecture of the Renaissance, a luncheon, 
and a weekly ‘‘at home” of an author 
who never makes calls, but receives in 
salon fashion, once a week, anybody who 
chooses to attend her gatherings, which 
are full of variety and the kind of persi- 
flage one reads in the novels one does not 
understand. This lady was well connected ; 
therefore, although she lived in a socially 
decadent part of town, Elizabeth was per- 
mitted to mix with the great variety of 
human beings to be met at her house, and 
to introduce me there. London was in the 
air, at this house. Nearly everybody had 
spent some time there, and I found a 
number of writers and painters who knew 
English friends of mine. I can safely say 
that half hour was the most interesting 
. I had spent socially in Boston. It was 
neither stiff, nor pedantic, nor frisky. Fi- 
nally, when I went for my photograph, it was 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 59 

not to be found. There was no picture 
in the book of reference I had used ; could 
some one have carried it off.? I was 
annoyed at my indiscretion, but spilt milk 
is never worth crying over. In a few days 
I forgot all about the incident, having 
mentioned it to no one. 

Before this I had discovered, by observa- 
tion and conversation, that Boston dances, 
dinners, and teas were about the same as 
those one attends in any other city, with 
this difference : professional people were 
to be met everywhere in Boston. Artists 
are not patronised there ; they are frater- 
nised, and included socially without passing 
an examination upon ancestry, as are no 
other outsiders. Greatly to the credit of 
Boston stands this fact. Brains and talent 
will pass muster where no amount of money 
can among Bostonians, unless it be with 
those who are ancestry ridden. No doubt 
they make this recognition somewhat of a 
pose, but underneath that attitude there is 
an honest admiration of ability. The major- 
ity of people occupied with the arts have 
small time or inclination for society per se ; 


60 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

but if by chance they have social tenden- 
cies, and are equipped with real ability and 
fairly good manners, they can gratify these 
instincts in Boston where millionaires with- 
out the requisites pass unheeded. 

Frances Thurlston said she could not see 
why, as far as business occupations went, 
Boston had higher claims than Chicago. 
‘‘For my part, I cannot see any refined 
difference between pork and leather. One 
is the inside of an animal, the other the 
outside,” she insisted. But, notwithstand- 
ing this fact, I noticed that Frances chose 
Boston as a place of residence while in 
America. 

Mr. Warren Hartwell had returned from 
Europe and called several times by the 
first week in December. Aunt Drusilla 
found him almost as absorbing a topic 
of conversation as reforms. Dorothy spoke 
of him in the tone of a near relative, but 
Elizabeth seldom mentioned him. Finally, 
one night at a dance at Dorothy’s, Mr. 
Hartwell and I held our first conversation 
alone. I said to him : “ There is a familiar 
look about you, Mr. Hartwell. Have I met 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 6 1 


you somewhere before, or has my aunt’s 
admiration of you thrown a sub-conscious 
picture on my brain ? ” 

Where could we have met ? ” he asked, 
with a strangely knowing smile. Then, 
without waiting for a reply, he continued : 

I feel that same certainty of having seen 
you before. There is something familiar 
about the eyes.” 

I changed the subject, because I did not 
understand his apparent amusement, inex- 
plicable to me. Soon he asked how I 
liked Boston. 

‘^When you ask me that,” I replied, 
I feel as the foreigner must as he lands 
at New York, besieged to give his impres- 
sions of America before he has seen any- 
thing but the Statue of Liberty.” 

But you have been here several weeks. 
That I can certify,” he replied, again look- 
ing amused. 

Oh, yes, all of a month,” I said, begin- 
ning to be provoked by his covert smiles. 
“ I am reserving my impressions to put in 
a book, provided I have imbibed enough 
atmosphere to produce one when I leave 


62 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 


in the spring. So far I have only one 
distinct impression: hatred of one Boston 
man whom I do not know.” 

“ Is the gentleman anonymous A great 
unknown ? ” Mr. Hartwell inquired. 

He is anonymous and unknown to me, 
but not altogether a gentleman. He saw 
me in distress and only laughed. You 
know the Boston laugh is frequently mis- 
understood by strangers.” 

Perhaps you did not give this espe- 
cially unfortunate Bostonian an opportunity 
to assist you,” Mr. Hartwell replied, with 
his grand air balanced by a sudden light- 
ing of his indifferent eyes. He was a man 
whom everybody called interesting, but no 
one could define the source of this element 
in him. His eyes looked indifferent and 
tired unless he was interested ; altogether 
his face was unfathomable, his power 
elusive. He nettled me, and still I did 
not dislike him. 

‘‘ A man should make and seize his op- 
portunity, not wait for women to beseech 
him, after the Boston fashion,” I replied, 
rather discourteously, I fear. 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 63 

“ Give him another chance, Miss Allston. 
Bostonians are open to improvement, you 
know. By the way, do you like the Boston 
weather ” 

I looked up at him quickly, astonished 
that such a man, after -five minutes, should 
be reduced to the weather as a topic of 
conversation. Dorothy coming up, I made 
no reply ; but again I noticed his unreason- 
able smile. 

After that Mr. Hartwell and I met con- 
stantly. Aunt Drusilla assured me that 
Warren was the best-connected man of 
the younger set in Boston. Everybody 
expected him to marry into one of the 
old families,” she continued, significantly. 
Happening to glance at Elizabeth during 
this explanation, I saw a slow blush 
cover her face and neck, whether of anger 
or something else I could not tell. Eliza- 
beth always seemed to me to be one of the 
inevitable spinsters. She was “ an old 
maid ” at ten years of age, but now she 
was also a woman of refinement and large 
pedantic intelligence. No doubt beneath 
her calm exterior she quivered at her 


64 her boston experiences 

mother’s lightly veiled references to 
Warren Hartwell. 

As Frances Thurlston said, if I depended 
upon Bostonians to show me Boston, I 
would go away in deep ignorance of the 
city, for the reason that every division 
of the inhabitants knows exclusively its 
own Boston. None of my relations had 
ever been to the top of Bunker Hill 
Monument, but they had climbed the 
Alps ; nor were they familiar with many 
of the other features of their city rele- 
gated to tourists. Boston has not only 
the most beautiful and interesting suburbs 
of any city in America, but it contains also 
more concentric circles of humanity than 
I have found elsewhere in this country. 
Each circle touches another at some point. 
The South End is like a young man who, 
starting out in life with brilliant prospects 
and making an utter failure of himself, 
gradually and reluctantly falls below the 
point of respectability. The North End, 
in reality historic Boston, is now the Ital- 
ian and Jewish quarter, whence the police 
gather their most exciting reports, and 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 65 

where artists go for picturesque humanity, 
— soiled and temperamental. Some other 
sections are the byword for uninteresting 
respectability. Then there is the Back 
Bay, the fashionable quarter, built upon 
slippery ground, so to speak, considering 
that the whole district west of the Public 
Gardens is made ground. 

What a calamity if Boston should awake 
some morning to find its prominent citizens 
vanished, — sunk into the unknowable,” 
as they would say at the Cambridge Con- 
ferences, houses and all ! Much sterling 
worth and unlimited snobbery would be 
disposed of simultaneously, but the city 
in all probability would soon supply other 
prominent citizens of shorter pedigree, and 
the gap might be filled with more earth and 
them. Still, the character of the present 
Back Bay would be irrevocably lost. 

These matters were all explained to me 
by Frances, who knew thoroughly every 
city in which she lived. I would run away 
from the limitations of the Back Bay for fre- 
quent expeditions into the remainder of the 
city under her guidance. 


66 HER BOSTON- EXPERIENCES 

The poetic Indian summer, which lasted 
at intervals far into December, enticed us 
constantly out-of-doors. We drove over 
great stretches of the firmest, smoothest 
roads to be found in the environments 
of any city. Brookline seemed to me 
a haven of beautiful content, with its fine 
old trees and homes of various kinds, from 
places built on the plan and in the propor- 
tions of an English manor-house, sur- 
rounded by acres of grounds, to cosy 
modern houses, of good architecture gen- 
erally speaking ; one and all quite appar- 
ently homes, — the effect one searches for 
and misses in Boston proper. 

One day Frances and I were walking 
along Columbus Avenue, looking neither 
to the right nor left, when two men ap- 
proached. I noticed one touch the other, 
who laughed coarsely and addressed us 
with Good day, ain’t it ” both slowing 
up. I showed such astonishment that 
Frances whispered, *‘Look ahead ! Don’t 
speak ! ” 

We walked on silently. The men laughed 
again, but passed on. When we turned into 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 6 / 

Dartmouth Street, Frances delivered her- 
self : “ I meet more of that in this town 
than in any city in the world, not ex- 
cepting Paris. By five o’clock Saturday 
afternoon, men begin to reel through the 
streets, and Sunday is a day of dissipation 
among the lower classes. I can’t tell you 
how often I — yes, a middle-aged woman — 
have been spoken to in the last month on 
the street in the daytime. Boston is only 
an overgrown college town ; but these 
beasts one meets on the street are not 
college chaps, and nobody seems to know 
who or what they are. A woman is never 
in danger anywhere if she behaves herself, 
but she is open to extreme annoyance, and 
there can be no denying that Boston streets 
are invaded by an army of the most disa- 
greeable pests.” 

Frances never made a direct statement 
that she could not substantiate. She told 
one of the truths which no Bostonian will 
admit except on compulsion. 

Columbus Avenue, the street where this 
disagreeable episode occurred, might be 
called an asylum for Boston freaks. In 


68 her boston experiences 


its palmy days, the residences lining Co- 
lumbus Avenue’s asphalt pavement were 
built and occupied by Boston citizens claim- 
ing, incipiently, New York’s spirit of go and 
glitter. They laid out a broad avenue after 
the manner of the New York social mart, 
building imitative brownstone fronts as 
homes, and attempting, unsuccessfully, to 
turn the tide of fashion away from Beacon 
Street. Some of these imitative people, 
with dogged pride, still live in the brown- 
stone fronts. But the major part of the 
houses on Columbus Avenue are let out 
by the room, or rooms, to human phenom- 
ena in the shape of professors of every 
sleight-of-hand science known to modern 
folk. On that avenue one can find sover- 
eign cures for every human affliction, all 
done after some patent method especially 
attractive to Bostonians. 

Running off of this avenue are the most 
interesting domestic squares in Boston. 
The homes date from the beginning of 
the South End, and are mostly of English 
urban architecture, with low stoops. These 
houses are built of brick enriched in colour 


HER BOSTON- EXPERIENCES 69 

by time, and during six months of the year 
embowered in ivy. A refreshing plot of 
green grass and trees runs between the 
curved line of houses, and all is quiet, 
restful, and dignified. Carts do not rumble, 
rarely does an equipage pass, children do 
not shout, and what strata of society occu- 
pies these remote sanctuaries in the heart 
of a throbbing city it is difficult to deter- 
mine when even the policemen have no 
convincing information to give pertaining 
thereto. 


CHAPTER III 


HE day before Christmas a snow fell, 



-jL fine and powdery, over which one 
could imagine Saint Nick speeding behind 
“eight tiny reindeer,” lively and quick, 
generous and hearty. • 

Aunt Drusilla told us that when she 
was a child gifts were exchanged, if at 
all in New England, at Thanksgiving. 
Christmas was a religious day, and she 
recalled one year when, as a girl of fifteen, 
she made some little gift to her father 
during the holiday season, as she had 
known a young friend to do, and was 
reprimanded for her conduct. 

“ You girls do not realise what a change 
has come over the spirit of Boston since I 
was a child,” she said. “ In those days 
parents were prominent members of a 
family ; the children, of little consequence. 



TREMONT STREET MALL IN WINTER. 





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HER BOS TO AT EXPERIENCES 73 

When I came out I was given a ball, but 
the married people were conspicuous in 
the gathering ; not merely a few frisky 
married women called chaperons, but fine 
ladies and gentlemen of all ages. Young 
girls were to be seen, not heard. Nowa- 
days the girls go to dances alone in their 
parents’ carriage, with no protector but a 
coachman and footman picked up from 
dear knows where, servants are so transient 
and unreliable in our time. Or several 
girls will take a public carriage together, 
and ladies of my age are not even invited.” 

^‘They would be glad to have you go, 
mama-r, if you would only talk about 
somethin’ they understand. People don’t 
want to discuss their souls or other peo- 
ple’s souls at a dance,” said Dorothy, tor- 
menting her Spanish poodle by making 
thrusts at him with a paper-cutter. 

‘^No, they prefer, as does one of my 
daughters, to talk scandal and the French 
slang of the Latin Quarter,” replied Aunt 
Drusilla, gathering her gray silk shawl 
about her shoulders with an offended 
air. 


74 her boston experiences 

What an idea-r, mama-r ! ” replied 
Dorothy. We talk books, pictures, 
music, and art — with a big A — until I 
frequently wish we really knew what we 
were talkin’ about. 

<< Have you noticed, Margaret, that the 
people who actually do somethin’ in Bos- 
ton talk very little about it ? I’ll take you 
with me to the Lesters’, on the Hill. Of 
course, you have read Mr. Lester’s books, 
or if you haven’t you must read one be- 
fore we go. Quote an author to his face 
and he is your, friend. Mr. Hartwell goes 
there a lot. He thinks the Lester set the 
only one worth knowin’ in Boston. The 
Lesters go everywhere, — they are very 
well connected, both here and in London, 
— and on their day one sees a lot of 
writers and such people there who never 
condescend to come to me or to mama-r.” 

Dorothy, you put on a wrong ‘ r ’ 
then,” I said. 

The idea-r ! ” she exclaimed ; I never 
do that.” 

<‘You did it then again,” I replied, 
laughing. 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 75 

‘‘ Where ? I don’t believe it. You 
told me I called the singer Melbar, Melba-r, 
when I know I say Melba-r.” 

You certainly do say Melba-r, Doro- 
thy. You are as deaf to superfluous r’s as 
the rest of New England. Console your- 
self with the reflection of a Massachusetts 
farmer who once said to me : ‘ Well, I 
cal’late if r’s is put on in places they ain’t 
used to, outside of New England, it’s 
because them other folks don’t know 
nothin’ ’bout usin’ ’em.’ ” 

Dorothy laughed good-naturedly. I 
can hear that we drop our g’s, but I can’t 
hear any difference in our pronunciation of 
the word ‘ idea-r,’ any more than Elizabeth 
can hear the nasal sound in her voice.” 

This conversation took place the day 
before Christmas, and we decided not to 
go to the Lesters’ until after the holidays, 
which were already filled with engage- 
ments. After this decision had been 
reached, Dorothy jumped up, exclaiming : 

Here I sit when I have an appointment 
to meet Warren Hartwell at a jeweler’s ! 
I promised to help him with his Christmas 


76 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

shoppin’. Come on, girls. Don’t you 
want to go along } ” 

Elizabeth had promised to drive with 
her mother, whose day was occupied in 
directing the dispensation of charities con- 
tributed by the various societies and asso- 
ciations she represented. I started off 
with Dorothy, whose carriage was at the 
door. As we drove down-town, Dorothy 
said, with her rather wicked smile : See 

here, Madgie, it seems to me you are run- 
nin’ Elizabeth and the other girls rather 
close with Warren. He tells me you have 
shown him how weak-minded it is to sit 
half the day at the Somerset or Puritan Club 
and spend the other half in ‘innocuous 
desuetude.’ He is really a clever chap, 
but lack of necessity has ruined his ambi- 
tion. Perhaps you have stirred him up, for 
he goes to his office every day now. But 
I say, Madgie, don’t you think you were 
indiscreet to give him your photograph so 
early in the day ? I’m no prig like mama-r, 
but there is a limit, you know.” 

“I don’t know what you are talking 
about, Dorothy,” I returned, feeling as 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 7/ 

stiff as I must have looked. “ I neither 
have designs on the only eligible man 
there seems to be in Boston society, nor 
have I given him my photograph.” 

Now don’t get snippy about it, my 
dea-r. I’m only Dorothy ; you mustn’t 
mind me. I’m not scoldin’. I should be 
only too glad to have Warren for a cousin, 
but I don’t like his showin’ your photo- 
graph — ” 

‘‘ Showing my photograph ! Where } ” 
At the club the other day. Fred 
heard of it through some of the men, and 
he didn’t like it one bit.’’ 

‘‘ Where did he get my photograph ? ” 
I demanded. 

‘‘That’s the question,” she replied. 

“ Well, as I am not a professional beauty 
nor an actress, nor do I do anything, my 
pictures are not for sale ; so I think Fred 
must be mistaken.” 

“Then you did not give it to him } ” 

“ I give it to him ! I thought you knew 
me better than that, Dorothy.” 

“ I thought so myself, Madgie,” she 
said, soothingly. 


y8 her boston EXPERIENCES 

‘‘Perhaps it is a mistake. I’ll speak 
about it to Fred again.” 

We were silent a moment ; then I said : 
“ Put me down here, Dorothy. I do not 
wish to meet Mr. Hartwell until Fred finds 
out the truth of this affair.” 

“ Never mind, — ” she began. 

“ Set me down at once. I’ll walk the 
rest of the way and do some shopping while 
I cool off. I respected Mr. Hartwell more 
than any other man I have met here.” 

She stopped the coachman and set me 
down, expressing regret, and promising to 
probe the matter through her husband. 
I walked very fast through the Public 
Gardens and Common, a fairyland of light 
flaky snow that had fallen the night be- 
fore, loading the trees with the garments 
of the Snow Queen, — a wonderful sight ! 
But even the beauty of the Common could 
not turn my thoughts from the revelation 
just made me. Warren Hartwell and I 
had become sincere friends even in that 
short while. I forgave him his indiffer- 
ence and hereditary Bostonianisms be- 
cause of many counter-attractions. He 



“A FAIRYLAND OF LIGHT FLAKY SNOW. 








HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 8 1 


seemed to forgive my lack of those quali- 
ties for somewhat the same reason. I did 
not understand him always, nor did he 
mean that I should. In the midst of an 
intelligent conversation he would say, lan- 
guidly, “ What do you think of the Boston 
weather by this time, Miss Allston } ” 
while from under his half-closed lids there 
came a look reminding me of that mocking 
tone in his voice. At first I thought the 
weather must be his hobby, but he never 
talked on that subject with any one else in 
my hearing ; then I decided that weather 
was the weak spot in his brain, as some 
scientists think we all have one, and finally 
I refused to answer him, which made his 
laugh more frequent and disagreeable. 

One Sunday morning we were walking 
together on Commonwealth Avenue with 
the stream of fashionable pedestrians re- 
turning home from church, when Mr. 
Hartwell suddenly asked : Did any one 
ever show you how to tie a boot lace so 
that it will stay ? ” 

‘*Yes,” I replied; *‘many people have, 
with poor results.” 


82 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

** If you will permit me I will show you 
some day how to make a warranted knot. 
You might find it useful in case of rain.” 

“ This is some more book talk, I sup- 
pose,” I returned, looking at him quickly. 
‘‘Subterranean meanings in pure literary 
form.” 

“ Not at all. John Bradley is the man 
for that sort of thing. Most women com- 
plain of boot laces when walking far. Did 
you never have one come untied on the 
street in the rain or snow 1 I have.” 

“Yes, indeed, I have, to my disgust.” 
Then I remembered my experience of 
more than a month before, and told him 
about it, and why I hated one Bostonian 
so much. 

He smiled lazily several times during 
the narrative, and admitted that “ the man 
must have been a cad.” At the end of 
my story he remarked : “ Try to forgive 
him. He was a Bostonian, and couldn’t 
help it.” 

“ Do you know that man } ” I asked, 
suspiciously. 

“ I know nearly all the men about. But 


NEW IDEA OEHTAl 





STORMY DAY FOR CHRISTMAS SHOPPERS. 






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HER BOSTON- EXPERIENCES 85 

he has never spoken to me of the circum- 
stance if I do know him, so I cannot say.” 

Now, as I thought of what Dorothy had 
told me, my mind at once reverted to that 
talk, and I hated him almost as much as I 
did the other man. 

How gay the crowded streets were ! 
Tremont and Washington Streets, with 
their narrow sidewalks, from which the 
hurrying crowds overflowed into the 
streets, were resplendent with holiday 
wares upon which the sun shone gaily. 
Some one pounded me on the chest with 
the end of a parcel ; then a fat woman 
brushed between a large man and me, 
sending him into the gutter. Few apolo- 
gise on Washington Street. Apologies 
are either taken for granted, or not in- 
tended, on the busy streets of Boston. 

Presently the crowd came to a standstill 
before a Santa Claus in a shop window. I 
could not move one way or another. A 
man came out of a stairway against which 
I was pressed. The crowd threw me 
against him. beg your pardon,” said 
a familiar voice above my shoulder. Look- 


86 her boston experiences 

ing up in surprise at the apology, I found 
myself fairly thrown into the arms of War- 
ren Hartwell. 

Miss Allston ! ” he exclaimed. Are 
you hurt } What are you doing here in 
this mob } ” 

I couldn’t help it,” I replied. ‘‘ They 
pushed me against you. Dorothy is wait- 
ing for you at the jeweler’s.” 

‘‘ Aren’t you coming, too ? ” he asked. 

‘‘No,” I replied, coldly. “Hurry, or 
you will keep her waiting.” 

Just then the crowd parted and I 
slipped away from him without another 
word. I walked on down Washington 
Street past the Old South Meeting-house 
and as far as Newspaper Row ; then back 
again, stopping at a book store. In there 
the first person I ran against was Frances 
Thurlston, who knew every book store by 
heart. 

“ Just the girl I want ! ” she exclaimed. 
“ Are you coming to-night ? It is my 
‘ freak ’ night, you know, and I wish you 
to meet some of the people who will be 
there.” 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 8 / 

I promised to go, provided the girls had 
made no other engagement for me. 

“ My sister is coming to-night, with 
your friend, Mr. Warren Hartwell, in 
tow,” said Frances, as she gave what she 
called “ a Boston punch ” with her elbow 
to a woman who tried to walk over us in 
her attempt to secure a clerk. 

That afternoon I went with Dorothy 
and Elizabeth to a piano recital given by 
one of Mrs. Bobby Short’s numerous 
protegees, assisted by one of the most 
interesting song singers in Boston. The 
recital was held in the De Medici room of 
The Tuileries and was more or less a chari- 
table affair, aside from its advertising pur- 
poses. There are more good recitals in 
Boston during the season than any one 
could possibly enjoy ; consequently the 
friends or patrons of the musicians signify 
to their friends how much under obligation 
they will be placed to any one buying 
tickets to these subscription concerts. 

When the well-seasoned professional 
holds forth at the attractive little subter- 
ranean hall called Steinert’s, he takes more 


88 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 


chances with the public, and generally, 
with a few particular, popular exceptions, 
suffers the consequences ; for chamber 
music, aside from the Kneisel Quartette’s 
performances, goes begging in Boston, as 
it does in all American cities. Of course, 
Mrs. Bobby Short was there, as gracious 
and as independent of public opinion as 
ever. She was surrounded by several 
masculine artistic satellites, all of whom 
she had assisted toward an honest living 
in some way or another, thus causing the 
public tongue to wag its easily greased 
muscles. Her particular friends were 
there, and a few others, like Elizabeth and 
myself. 

The same reverent hearing was given 
this performance that I had observed at 
other musical entertainments in Boston, 
where the average intelligence is unques- 
tionably beyond that of other American 
cities. When the trite, misrepresented 
word “ culture ” is concerned there is little 
to be said in favour of Boston, as contrasted 
with other places ; but, with the best school 
system we have in our country, the finest 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 89 

library, and a large percentage of heredi- 
tary intelligence to begin on, it would be 
surprising and mortifying if the average 
intelligence were not high. 

Dorothy whispered to me, before the 
performance began : Warren Hartwell 
asked me what was the matter with you 
this mornin’ — 

The pianist appeared. I put my finger 
on my lips, indicating silence, and heard 
nothing more of Mr. Hartwell. 

Christmas greens hung in bright quanti- 
ties every place we went that day. When 
I reached Frances Thurlston’s in time for 
a cosy dinner with her alone, before the 
freaks ” arrived, her apartment, too, was 
festooned at every available spot with 
holly and evergreens ; but there was no 
mistletoe, I noticed. Our dinner together 
was in commemoration of a Christmas 
Eve spent in Paris with a gay party of 
English and Americans two years pre- 
vious. At eight o’clock the “ freaks ” be- 
gan to come, most of them people deprived 
of home life, for whom Frances was mak- 
ing a bit of Christmas cheer, although she 


90 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

would have denied the sentimental accusa- 
tion. She was a good hostess, usually 
touching the best side of every one. 

A few of these people I had met before. 
They were nearly all local celebrities in 
some especial way. 

Frances told me that if any one asked 
me how I liked the climate, to reply, 
‘‘The east winds give me a tendency to 
rheumatism.’* She had no time to ex- 
plain, for the guests began to arrive ; but 
when, a few moments later, I found my- 
self talking to a middle-aged woman with 
a kind face and pussy-cat manners, wearing 
a costume representing several different 
periods of fashion, and she asked me if 
Boston satisfied my ideal, I replied : “ Cer- 
tainly the east winds do ; they give me a 
rheumatic tendency.” 

“And you so young!” she exclaimed, 
reproachfully. “ My dear child, you have 
no rheumatism — you cannot have — you 
must not have disease. Disease is sin. 
You must deny it. You are God’s child, 
made in his perfect image. You create 
your own sin apart from his essence, and 


HER BOSTON- EXPERIENCES 9I 

sin is disease. Say to it, ‘out,’ and it will 
out. Remember that only spirit lives ; 
your body is no more than the food you 
eat. Come to me if you lose possession of 
your spirit, and I will do my part toward 
its resuscitation.” 

“Yes’m,” I replied, too astonished at 
her outburst and at my own sin to say 
more. 

“ Promise me that you will deny sin, 
my dear, and — ah ! Mr. Davis, so glad 
to see you ! This is Miss Allston, our 
dear Miss Thurlston’s guest. I was de- 
monstrating to her how needless disease 
is — ” She continued to expound her 
doctrines to a running accompaniment by 
Mr. Davis, who was evidently a brother in 
the faith, with small regard to the clothing 
of his flesh in anything but spirit, his cos- 
tume being an ordinary business suit, 
creased and untidy. 

Frances interrupted their talk, which 
was carried on entirely between themselves, 
while I stood by, an amused but apparently 
forgotten listener, by bringing up a lady, 
also middle-aged, but with a beautiful. 


92 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 


poetic, faded face. Accompanying her 
was a tall, thin young man with very black, 
searching eyes and a great deal of black 
hair. He said very little ; he seemed to 
listen with his eyes. The lady, Miss Tor- 
rington, was charming. 

Presently the young man, looking across 
the top of my head with a professional 
glance, said, abruptly, “ See the blue lights 
in her hair. They fairly quiver.” 

Miss Torrington followed the painter’s 
gaze, replying, with ecstatic expression : 
‘‘ I have seen nothing else while we talked. 
What tone there is ! The shadows in the 
broad light must be superb. Green is 
needed somewhere, don’t you think ? Per- 
haps about the throat. Then a little dis- 
tance, and what an effect ! Where would 
you touch in the vanishing point, were you 
working in the wave of hair toward the ear 
as the point of high light ? ” 

‘‘ Pd give her several trees and a lane 
in perspective, and put the figure in the 
middle ground, draped in whites and blues. 
She' is a better figure than head model. 
The vanishing point would fall at the sky 



SEE THE BLUE LIGHTS IN HER HAIR 


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HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 95 

line of the lane, I should say. What a 
composition ! If I could only get those 
hair lights ! Blue ! Blue ! ” 

They, too, had forgotten me. This 
time I was lost in my hair, but I plucked 
up courage to ask, “ Do you see any blue 
devils there } I have them, I know.” 

My dear Miss Allston, you must for- 
give our rapt admiration of your radiant 
hair. My friend is a rare colourist ; an 
artist of whom we all expect miracles. I 
am only a humble follower of the noble 
impressionist idea, but he is a true disciple, 
a genius.” The young man himself 
seemed to take this all for granted. 

This black-eyed impressionist now de- 
manded, “Which do you feel the most, 
line or colour. Miss Allston ? ” 

Happily I was saved from answering by 
a brisk young author, who flashed his wit 
at one with dazzling illumination. He 
approached, greeting us all with “Is the 
night gray or purple ? Teaching the 
visitor what colour she is ? I know them 
and like them almost as well as I do my 
own books. Miss Allston. This man here 


9 ^ HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

assures me he sees purple in my hair. I 
tell him it is printer’s ink, oozing out of 
my gray matter. Eh ! Duncan ? ” 

^^ril leave him to file his wits or boil 
them down on you, Miss Allston,” replied 
the artist, with a smile, as he turned to 
speak to a lady who had captured Miss 
Torrington. 

My wits are like beef : better for cold 
storage. That’s why I live in Boston. 
May I etherise time for you until you are 
claimed by a better man ? ” asked Mr. 
John Bradley, whose books were as popu- 
lar as he himself. 

“ What if he should never come ? He 
must be rare,” I replied, thinking hard to 
keep up with him. 

Then I should insist that the majority 
ruled, and pledge myself to Paradise. But 
here comes the better man, just when he 
isn’t wanted. He asked me to present 
him.” 

A portly gentleman afflicted with bald- 
ness approached, dressed in proper evening 
dress, as was the author. He spoke with 
a slight accent, either German or Scandi- 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 97 

navian; which, I could not determine. 
<‘Miss Thurlston tells me you have lived 
in Paris, miss. How does this city of 
Puritanical atmosphere interest you } Do 
the east winds unsettle your moral pur- 
pose, as they bid fair to mine } 

“ My morality is not in the least affected 
so far, but my bones are,” I replied. 
‘‘The east wind gives me a tendency to 
rheumatism.” 

“ Ah ! That is bad ; but it can be 
mended. Have you yet learned to know 
of the healer we have in our midst ? His 
theories can be traced directly to the New 
Testament. They are worth examining. 
His power is that of obsession. You 
know when the spirit leaves the body it is 
not instantly purified, but hangs between 
heavenly and earthly leanings. Those 
spirits that succumb to the remembrance 
of the flesh return to earth, settling in the 
form of disease in human beings. This 
man simply exorcises these evil spirits 
by passing his hand over the spot they 
inhabit — ” 

“Ah, come now, Gratton!” said Mr. 


g8 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

Bradley. Don’t tell the young lady she 
is possessed with devils.” 

“He is a mental will-o’-the-wisp, miss. 
He is never serious. How can we know 
unless we investigate } Truth is elusive. 
It must be probed. It is good to believe.” 

“Yes, if you can change your belief 
once a week, as you do,” replied the other, 
smiling with that humour in his eyes con- 
doning his frequent liberty of speech. 

Before the evening was over I became 
so mixed in my mind, what with expres- 
sions of polite anarchy, the imminence 
of the socialistic idea, the importance of 
college settlements, and other theories 
hinged on to those I have quoted, that I 
wondered how the world could be large 
enough to hold them all where each man 
and woman overflowed with explosive ideas 
directed oppositely. 

Mrs. Drake came late, accompanied by 
a musician with a handsome face, and a 
blas6, world-worn expression ; but Mr. 
Hartwell did not appear. 

Frances asked if I liked the rest of the 
“ freaks ” as much as I did her. I re- 



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HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES lOI 


plied, “ ‘ The east winds in Boston give 
me a rheumatic tendency.’ Merry Christ- 
mas ! ” 

Not until Christmas Day did I have a 
chance to talk with Dorothy alone again. 
My box from home and many Christmas 
letters made me feel like a boarding-school 
girl away from home during the holidays. 
Mr. Hartwell sent Aunt Drusilla enough 
roses to bank a mantel, but not a sprig to 
either Elizabeth or me. He dined with 
us that day, as his only near relative, a 
married sister, was spending several 
months at Aiken, where many Bostonians 
go for health and gaiety. I attended ser- 
vice Christmas morning with Uncle John 
at Trinity Church, whose great domed 
interior, harmonious tones, and peaceful 
sanctity called to my mind the character of 
the man whose grand dimensions of mind, 
soul, and body had unconsciously built the 
glory of this edifice as a monument to his 
own noble endeavours in behalf of human- 
ity. I never heard Phillips Brooks preach, 
but one autumn I crossed from Liverpool 
in the same boat with him, and before we 


102 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

were out a day every one on board felt 
the presence of a great soul in our midst, 
— a soul so childlike in its own purity, so 
manly in its strength, that no man nor 
woman could be other than his or her best 
in its uplifting presence. 

When we walked home across Copley 
Square, along Dartmouth Street to Beacon 
Street, every house was brightened by the 
greens at the windows. Uncle John said 
to me, with a little dry sound in his voice : 
‘‘ This day always brings up my mother to 
me, Margaret. Father never permitted 
much Christmas at our house, — I wish 
you could have seen the old place, oppo- 
site to where the theatre is now, — but she 
always had a pair of new stockings for us 
boys on Christmas morning, and in the toe 
was some little gift, something each boy 
wanted particularly. Why, Margaret, I 
remember Boston when there was no Back 
Bay. I remember seeing herds of sheep 
and cattle driven along Washington Street, 
then a strip of road leading from Boston 
to Dorcester. I’m getting to be an old 
man, Margaret, but it has made me young 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 103 

to have your bright face and natural ways 
in the house.” 

I merely put my arm in his for a 
moment and made him tell more about the 
Boston of his youth. Uncle John was a 
lonely man. The members of his family 
were too much engrossed with outside 
matters to waste time in making him 
happy. 

Dinner took the better part of Christ- 
mas afternoon. Dorothy’s one little boy 
was nearly a moral and physical wreck by 
night, being the only representative of 
childhood among us. 

Dorothy made an opportunity to say to 
me, “ I asked Fred about that photograph 
again, Madgie, and told him what you said. 
He is indignant, and says he will speak to 
Warren about it, if you will allow him to.” 

<'No,” I replied, shaking my head, I 
want no words between them over me. 
Thank Fred for me and tell him I intend 
to find out the truth, and punish Mr. 
Hartwell myself, if necessary.” 

‘‘Better let Fred do it,” she insisted; 
but I was firm. 


104 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

All that Christmas Day I treated Mr. 
Hartwell with calm indifference, until 
finally he walked off with a slight shrug 
and scarcely noticed me again. 

Elizabeth had a strange way of colour- 
ing whenever he approached her. She 
was never familiar with any one nor 
enthusiastic in her friendships. She was 
impenetrable where her affections were 
concerned. 

During the holidays I scarcely breathed 
between engagements. The marvel of it 
all is the longevity of the Boston women. 
They work harder in and out of society 
than they could endure to work at bread- 
winning. My nature is too open for me 
even to pose as a flirt, but I had a plan 
laid for penetrating the depths of Mr. 
Warren Hartwell, and it required the aid 
of several other men. After Christmas 
Day I resumed my ordinary manner 
toward him. 

He asked me one night after a theatre 
party if he had done anything to offend 
me. I replied, ‘‘ Is that your conscience 
speaking ? ” 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 1 05 

‘‘ Oh, no ! It is the conscience of my 
ancestors.” 

‘‘Is it probable that you would do any- 
thing to offend me that I could only know 
about second-hand } ” I asked. 

Speaking with his usual lazy indiffer- 
ence, he replied : 

“No, I love you too well for that.” 

I stared at him one moment, then ex- 
claimed, angrily : 

“ I did not think even Boston manners 
could be so execrable ! ” and left him 
standing alone. 


CHAPTER IV 


OT until late in January did an oppor- 



^ tunity arise for the experience at the 
Lesters’ which Dorothy had promised me. 

I had come to the conclusion, owing 
to the frequent disillusion I had met with, 
that heroes of the artistic world were best 
viewed at a distance personally if one 
wished to preserve a shred of the worship- 
ing faculty. As a rule, the artistic nature 
gives out its best possessions through the 
medium of its creations or interpretations, 
reserving a disenchanting personality for 
social relations. Having taken keen delight 
in Mr. Lester’s books, I had no special 
desire to know the other side of him ; but 
for the sake of another view of Boston, 
I went to his house, only to find him one 
of the welcome exceptions. Perhaps he is 
not sufficiently great to afford a disagreeable 


io6 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES lOJ 

manner ; at any rate, he presented a genial, 
well-bred exterior, devoid of egotistical man- 
nerisms. Talented people are like Boston 
men, — so used to seeing themselves in 
admiring eyes that a wholesomely truthful 
reflection either elicits their surprised ad- 
miration, or brings out the disagreeable 
qualities of any spoiled child. To this 
day, whenever I mount Beacon Hill, a 
mysterious feeling of expectancy comes 
over me. I peer around for a fleeting 
glance of Priscillas, John Aldens, or other 
far-away people who rightfully belong among 
those quaint old houses still breathing out 
history and romance. 

Beacon Hill is the only quiet part of 
Boston ; removed from the disturbance 
of steam engines, electric cars, and gen- 
eral traffic, — in fact, it is the only se- 
questered portion in the centre of any 
large city that I have found on this side 
of the Atlantic. At night only occasional 
electric lights dazzle the inhabitants of the 
air, but gaslight, in old-fashioned lamps, 
one here and there, attached to the angles 
or sides of a house, flickers about among 


I08 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 


the old-fashioned shadows. The ancient 
city residence of the Adams family, now 
passed into other hands, stands behind 
its one tree as if hiding natural grief at 
the unfaith of the family which bred its 
traditions. 

The ballroom of spacious dimensions, 
built for a Miss Adams upon the occasion 
of her first appearance in the social world, 
has been renovated ; but no modern taste 
can do away with the atmosphere of the 
dignified past still permeating that desolate 
room, draughty with the breath of former 
days, — a draught too subtle and spirited 
to be warmed away by modern furnaces. 
This town house of the Adams family 
represents Mount Vernon Street, and the 
one block of Beacon Street on the hill 
where certain families honourably continue 
their ancestral line, though hemmed in dis- 
agreeably by tailor shops and a club house. 

In front of these old places moves the 
hum of human masses hurrying to and fro, 
backward and forward in step with time, 
through the Common, with its circuitous 
walks shaded by noble trees of illustrious 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES IO9 

ancestry, its Frog Pond and soldiers’ monu- 
ment, all echoes of more humanly pic- 
turesque days. Behind Mount Vernon 
and Chestnut Streets, whose occupants are 
sometimes of the true blue and oftener of 
assorted blood, though choosing always 
conventional, stereotyped modes of living, 
comes the section reputed to be Bohemia. 
There, on Pinckney Street above Charles 
and along Joy Street, one begins to see life. 
The majority of the old homes on Pinckney 
Street are converted into lodging-houses, 
although a few professional families still 
occupy an entire house apiece. There are 
to be found rooming spinsters of Mayflower 
descent, generally poor connections of the 
same families residing on Beacon Street not 
far away, — near enough to mention fre- 
quently and intimately ; musicians ; news- 
paper people ; painters ; incipient authors 
and a few full-fledged ; professors of many 
languages ; teachers ; composers ; impecuni- 
ous youths with high spirits and one ‘‘ dress 
suit ” among several ; female typewriters 
and private secretaries. Hefe is the free- 
dom of the Latin Quarter, with but a small 


no HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

amount of its license. Human nature bears 
a close family resemblance all over the 
world when judged by communities with 
similar earmarks, but in America individ- 
uals merely pose as Bohemians ; they sel- 
dom come up (or down) to the “Simon 
pure ” article of foreign cities. America is 
eminently a respectable country, well- 
washed morally, and with considerable 
respect for the neighbours’ opinion. Ameri- 
cans become Bohemianised in Paris, but 
seldom in Boston, where the spook of 
Cotton Mather and other standards of re- 
spectability still hold sway with a groan 
and a ghostly shudder at a mishap. In 
truth, this Boston Bohemia stands for good 
spirits and innocent unconventionality, and 
is several times more virtuous than Boston 
society, no matter how pretentiously and 
flamboyantly the little country tries to dis- 
prove its virtue. 

There can be no general license in a 
neighbourhood dotted with boarding-houses 
where one must pass an examination both 
in respectability and brains before admit- 
tance is allowed, and which are conducted 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 1 1 1 


by patterns of spinsterial virtue who sit at 
the head of a table full of cultured boarders, 
announcing the cultured menu to each in- 
dividual somewhat in this wise : “ Miss 

, will you partake of lamb warmed in 

its own gravy ? Or a suggestion of shep- 
herd’s pie? Or possibly chicken pie to 
come ? ” 

Beyond this hint at freedom the negroes 
begin to live and hold their own in a solid 
mass to the very foot of the hill. This 
is fashionable Africa, where the quality is 
high and the negro inhabitant would be a 
foreigner to the members of his race in 
most cities. But to the north and east 
of the hill, surrounding the rear of the 
State House, there is a life carried on under 
the rose, in the silence of conscious guilt, 
which, whether it be found in the Latin 
Quarter of Paris, in Bloomsbury, Lon- 
don, or on the shady side of Beacon Hill, 
is the rotten core of society. This life is 
one of ' the various weeds called license, 
grown in the garden of freedom and not 
reached by the hand of the law. 

Below Charles Street, bearing upon the 


1 12 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

river at the western foot of the streets 
reviewed above, there is another exclusive 
quarter. There one finds the Church of 
the Advent, from which run off whimsical 
little streets laid out in half-circles or 
obtuse angles, and living amidst some 
strictly Sabbatarian and conventional fami- 
lies, the “quality of the artistic life,” who 
divide their time between the callings of 
society and those of their professions. 
There one hears an echo of Paris, too ; 
many French phrases intersperse conversa- 
tion, imitation salons are held on Sunday 
night and other nights. Without doubt 
that tiny section covers more of the real 
wit, wisdom, and worldliness than any one 
other part of Boston. On one of these 
streets Dorothy took me to an evening 
at the Lesters’. A man at one time was 
known by the books he read and the 
friends he made, but at present in judging 
his tendencies one must also consider the 
interior of his home, no matter if that 
home be contained in one room. The 
interior of the Lesters’ house was very 
eloquent upon this theme. The hangings, 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 1 1 3 

furniture, pictures, cosy corners, and deco- 
rative objects of interest were all in 
accord with an aesthetic nature moulded 
by intimacy with the world. The guests, 
with few exceptions, were of the American 
type never mentioned abroad ; people who 
are accustomed from birth to social usages, 
including the use of forks for pie and 
beans — and apropos of beans let me inter- 
rupt myself long enough to say that no one 
can judge of baked beans outside of Bos- 
ton. Just as the Scotchman loses his 
most interesting characteristics removed 
from his ‘‘ain fireside,” so beans lose all 
family resemblance and flavour baked out- 
side of Massachusetts. 

There is an unutterable succulence 
about a Boston bean, and a toothsome 
sweetness which, once wholly appreciated 
under proper conditions, can never be lost 
to the memory of the palate. 

But, to return, Elizabeth, who was with 
us that night, soon became absorbed in a 
discussion with the same tired-eyed com- 
poser whom I have mentioned before, 
concerning the ethics of the Wagnerian 


1 14 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 


theory of art. My charming hostess pre- 
sented to Dorothy and me a celebrated 
Frenchman who was lecturing upon French 
literature at Harvard. He seemed im- 
mensely attracted toward Dorothy, to whom 
he said with an air of flippant intensity, so 
to speak : A manifold pleasure to meet 
in such charming society the ideal Ameri- 
can, Mrs. Granger ! It is my hope that 
she has not failed to remember the occa- 
sion upon which we met last — ” then 
he turned into French, which Dorothy 
chattered glibly, and Elizabeth included 
me in her conversation with the composer. 

‘‘Perhaps my cousin, who has lived in 
Paris, can help us to decide,” she said. 
“Margaret, I contend that the Wagnerian 
principles of Art are too fraught with meta- 
physical significance ever to take hold 
upon the Latin mind. Mr. Tomlins does 
not agree with me. What do you think } ” 
She looked at me with the Boston face ; 
he glanced at both of us as if bored with 
any opinion opposing his own. I replied, 
“ True art is not racial. The Latin races 
discriminate between the true and the 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 1 1 5 

spurious in Wagner’s work, whereas the 
Germans idolise him without discrimina- 
tion.” I used all of those big words 
bravely, — the punishment must be made 
to fit the crime. Elizabeth was impressed 
and the composer ceased to be bored for 
a minute. He took up the discussion 
almost as if I were his equal mentally ; 
but to my relief Mr. John Bradley came 
up just then. ‘‘Again I find you a vic- 
tim,” he said. “All I am good for in 
Boston is to act as a sandwich between 
wit and wisdom. There is a man looking 
for you. Have you seen him yet ? Hart- 
well. He told me to hunt you up.” 

“You are indeed a social martyr, Mr. 
Bradley,” I replied. “If Mr. Hartwell 
feels the need of my society he can find 
me without putting his friends on the 
warpath.” 

“Oh, don’t call it that, or I shall feel 
called upon to assume the arduous duties 
of an arbitration committee. Hartwell’s 
a lazy duck. Then, too, he knew I’d 
enjoy the mission. He only asked me 
if you were here. There’s something great 


Il6 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 


out about Hartwell. Have you heard it } 
The fellows were telling me the other 
night at the Pewter Mug Club. He’s 
completely ‘ bowled over ’ by some strange 
woman’s picture he carries around with 
him, begging the fellows to locate the 
original. Picked up the photograph on 
the street or some place. You know 
Hartwell’s such a close-mouther that every- 
body is full of this ‘ corker ’ on him. I’ve 
put the story down for future reference. 
It will ‘ go ’ as ‘ copy.’ ” 

My heart seemed to plunge downward, 
it stood so still. I felt pale, but managed 
to reply, ‘‘Is that the way the people talk 
in your books, Mr. Bradley, or is Rudyard 
Kipling phraseology coming into vogue } ” 
“I beg pardon. Miss Allston. A man 
catches slang like the measles. Thanks 
for tripping up my vocabulary. Now, if 
I could only imitate the language of my 
Hibernian laundress, my ships would sail 
over the mountain. She lives in Meander 
Lane, and confides in me ; two facts tell- 
ing against her. ‘ My Lard, sour ! Pwhat 
'm I to be doin’, sour ? Me bye, Jimmy, 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 11 / 


he wor took to the ashpital, sour, — the 
ashpital, — and beloiks thim lazy thramps 
o’ doctors il kilt him sure, — they’re sure to. 
Is the place afther bein’ named ashpital 
for phwat they turns ’em into ashes, sour t 
Dust to dust — ashes to ashes — I’ve 
heard it the marnin’ afther the wake, 
sour.’ She was in tears, I was in — ” 

A man and woman approached as he 
talked. At that moment the man inter- 
rupted him by laying a heavy hand on his 
shoulder, saying loudly, ‘‘ Bradley, my boy, 
glad to see you ! Decided to come back 
to the land of the bourgeois after all, did 
you ? ” Mr. Bradley, looking surprised 
and bored, I fancied, shook hands with 
both of them in his airy way, while the 
woman broke into a peculiar laugh which 
seemed to be an affliction of hers, remark- 
ing in the midst of it, ^‘We are glad to 
find a sympathetic soul on this side, Mr. 
Bradley (fearful laugh) ; Mr. Travers and 
I could hardly tear ourselves away from 
Italy (whoop). America is so bourgeois, 
so tame, so plebeian ! (giggle). Have 
you begun to feel at home yet } We come 


Il8 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

back with some noisy Americans. So 
tiresome ! ” 

He made some reply I did not hear 
because Elizabeth, deserted by the com- 
poser, who left her standing alone, had 
turned to me. Mr. Bradley presented to 
us, from sheer compulsion, Mr. and Mrs. 
Travers. Elizabeth put up her lorgnette 
with a look I understood. “ Everybody 
knows the Allstons,” said Mr. Travers. 

I guess we came across some of your 
relations in Paris. Nice people for Ameri- 
cans. My wife and I about made up 
our minds never to come back to this 
bourgeois country last summer. A man 
can’t be a gentleman in America. Why, 
them fellows in London don’t go to busi- 
ness till ten o’clock, and close at four. 
You’d ought to go to Paris, you two, if 
you want some fun. Paris is the only 
place to live in.” 

He continued in the same strain for 
possibly ten minutes, reiterating that 
*<we’d ought to go to Paris,” without 
stopping to find out whether or not we 
had ever gone. Meantime that coarse 


HER BOSTON- EXPERIENCES, II9 

laugh would sound at disagreeable inter- 
vals close by, until I saw Elizabeth, with a 
sudden ‘‘excuse me,” walk off and leave 
me with the untamed American, who 
could see no good in his own country. I 
was too full of amused utterance to speak. 
Mr. Bradley would twinkle his gay eyes at 
me every time the laugh sounded, and 
the man kept on telling me, “I’d ought 
to go to Paris,” until some other people 
coming up, Mr. Bradley turned the couple 
over to the newcomers. “ Been to Paris } ” 
the author asked as he turned to me. 
“You’d ought to go to Paris ! Take them 
with you, if you go, and leave them there. 
I wonder how they ever got into this 
house. I never met them anywhere else 
in town. There’s Hartwell ! I wonder 
if the maiden’s picture reposes in his left 
breast pocket. Let’s go and ask him.” 
I objected, and he remained chatting with 
me, while covertly, out of the corner of my 
eye, I noticed Mr. Hartwell watching us. 

Directly Dorothy brought up a very 
interesting gentleman, a musical critic with 
a keen wit and ready tongue smacking 


120 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

unconsciously of continental life. He in- 
terested me so completely that I regretted 
the interruption of a talkative girl, who 
approached us exclaiming, “ Now, my dear 
Mr. Wendel, you are not to escape me 
again to-day ! I did everything but whistle 
to attract your attention at the dear recital 
this afternoon. Wasn’t it dear } When 
you ‘ do ' the Kneisel Quartette to-morrow 
night I wish you would mention each man 
separately, they are all such dears. What 
I want is to know if you will give the 
private theatricals one of your stunning 
advance notices in your paper. That 
paper is such an old dear, you must like 
to write for it. Oh ! Miss Allston, 
Elizabeth’s cousin. Pardon ! How-de- 
you-do.? I did not see you. They tell 
me you are awfully good at that sort of 
thing — theatricals, I mean — been trained 
in Paris, and all that. Aren’t you going 
in for them, too.? — just to help us out.? 
You mustn’t think we only go in for cul- 
ture in Boston. They bore me so when 
I visit New York by expecting me to talk 
wisdom, — something I never do.” 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 12 1 


I excused myself from them after a few 
moments. As I moved away the clergy- 
man of Uncle John’s church accosted me. 
He began at once to talk about the theatri- 
cals the girl had mentioned. They were 
to be for some charitable purpose in which 
he was interested. From that subject he 
branched off into a story of one of his 
parishioners, a lady, who had bemoaned 
for years her inability to assist him as 
much as she desired with money in chari- 
table work. Finally a fortune fell to her 
lot and she ceased giving altogether. He 
asked her. why she had failed him in her 
plenty. “Yes,” she replied, “the Lord 
has bestowed upon me more money, but at 
the same time he has taken away my dis- 
position to give. How do you account for 
( that ? ” Some very good music, as is the 
rule at the Lesters’, interrupted his reply, so 
I never heard how he answered that poser. 
After the music I realised that the house 
was full of lions and lionesses all roaring 
at once. In the company of lions one 
must be very long-eared to venture upon 
an individual bray. With short ears one 


122 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

knows enough to listen and bow down. 
However, a painter with a noble brow, 
deep, serious eyes, and long, curling black 
hair talked to me about everything else 
but his work and himself. I knew, when 
I realised his identity, that he left the 
talking for other people to do. Another 
painter with more manner than genius, 
and possessed of a fluent tongue which 
dealt out persiflage faster than I could 
think, did not leave himself out of the 
conversation entirely. The woman who 
writes the most popular magazine stories 
of the day was there : a quiet, unassuming 
person with a saintly smile. There were 
poets long and short haired, book re- 
viewers, and several newspaper editors. 
Mrs. Bobby Short sailed in late (she always 
seems like a graceful ship in full sail with 
several tugs steaming in her wake), with 
one of the first violins of the Symphony 
Orchestra, an English actor, and a young 
man whose identity was evidently un- 
known. The particular lioness was an 
opera singer from the Metropolitan Opera 
House Company in New York, who was to 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 1 23 

be the soloist at the Symphony concert that 
week. This singer, Mrs. Short and her 
wake, and some of Dorothy’s friends had 
been dining together at Mrs. Short’s and 
came in with quite a breeze, very full of 
each other and their recent dinner. After 
several attempts I escaped to a secluded 
cosy corner behind the piano, where I grate- 
fully sat alone for a few moments, taking 
breath while criticising Boston in ambush. 
But I had only a moment alone in which 
to enjoy this intermission, for presently I 
saw Warren Hartwell, who had been talk- 
ing to the prima donna, look vacantly 
around the room ; then, upon catching 
sight of me, he followed to my retreat. 

I saw him coming and wished for a hole 
in the wall behind me. Between us, as 
he advanced, there passed a plain-looking 
couple of middle age from whom one 
would have expected Latin verse at least. 
I shall always remember how that woman 
looked coyly at the man, saying with an 
air, “ I’m afraid you’re a butterfly ! ” 

Mr. Hartwell was coming nearer. He 
had written me a note, which I left un- 


124 her boston experiences 

answered. To his salutation I barely re- 
plied, letting my hand drop to my side. 
His face was wide awake that night. 

“ Miss Allston,” he began, bending over 
me as I sat there, “ I wrote you a note 
two weeks ago. The next day I was called 
to New York, where I have been ever 
since until to-day. I left orders to forward 
my letters. No reply came from you. 
Did you receive my note ” 

‘‘Yes,” I replied, looking past him. 

“ As I said, a man untrained at the pen 
cannot put on paper the thoughts he 
holds highest. I told you that I loved 
you, which seemed to make you angry. 
I wished to say more. You deserted 
me. I wrote, asking for an interview 
when I could say the rest. You have 
not answered my note. Am I to under- 
stand — ” 

“You are to understand,” I replied, 
looking directly up at him, “that outside 
of Boston, men do not love women they 
do not respect ; and, not being a Boston- 
ian, I have nothing to reply to your 
letter.” 





“HE TOOK US TO OUR CARRIAGE 












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ffER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 12 / 


“What do you mean ? Have I done or 
said anything disrespectful? Oh, Mar- 
garet, do not — ” 

“ Hush,” I cautioned. “ Here comes 
Elizabeth. We are going. I have noth- 
ing to say to you, Mr. Hartwell, except 
that if you have a photograph of me I 
should like to have it returned at once.” 

“ How did you know — ? ” he attempted 
to say, but Elizabeth reached us and he 
took us to our carriage almost in silence. 
As he closed the carriage door he said, 
“Ah, by the wa/. Miss Allston, may I 
drive you out on the boulevard to-morrow 
afternoon ? The ground is just right 
for sleighing even in town. In the coun- 
try it will be better.” 

“Thanks, no,” I replied; “you are very 
kind, but I have an engagement.” He 
closed the door quickly with a sudden 
good night. 

“ What is the matter with Warren ? ” 
asked Dorothy. “ Is he in a temper ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” I replied. “ I thought 
a Boston man was too indifferent ever to 
lose his temper,” Dorothy laughed. “ The 


128 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 


idea! I believe you like Boston men 
better than you pretend to, Madgie.” 

‘‘ I certainly would not tell them so if I 
did. They are conceited enough already.” 

“They certainly are all of that,” she 
admitted, with another laugh. Elizabeth 
said nothing. She leaned back against 
the cushions, looking very tired. About 
my cousin Elizabeth’s face, there was 
always a touch of nobility. When her 
lorgnette was not in use she might have 
been called a severely handsome woman, 
but her emotional nature had become so 
entirely subordinated to her mental activity 
that, even at her age, there was scarcely a 
vestige of girlhood remaining in her face 
or manner. She was like her mother, in 
that all expression of feeling must be con- 
trolled first and last. One must renew 
one’s acquaintance with a typical Boston- 
ian at every fresh encounter. For fear of 
undue intimacy the Puritan nature repels 
even those toward whom it is attracted. 
A Bostonian will go out of his way to do 
you a favour, and at the same time affirm 
that he has done nothing to oblige you. 



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HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES \ 3 1 

until one feels his act to be a condescen- 
sion, — an impression he had no desire 
to convey. This is also a characteristic 
of the Britisher, of whom the Bostonian is 
the closest descendant characteristically in 
the United States. So it was with Aunt 
Drusilla. She was a thoroughly good 
woman ; the trouble lay in her exact 
knowledge of how good she was and how 
good other people ought to be. 

The day following the evening at the 
Lesters’ I went with her to attend a special 
meeting of the woman suffragists at King’s 
Chapel. My aunt, though not an active 
public worker in the emancipation cause, 
was a great enthusiast in that movement, 
never missing a meeting where her best 
friends were always to be seen. As we 
drove down-town she said, in a tone of rep- 
rimand, “Margaret, the girls tell me you 
have had some quarrel or trouble with 
Warren Hartwell. The mere thought of 
such a possibility is displeasing to me. 
When I was a girl, girls were too well bred 
to quarrel with young men, but nowadays 
girls are forward, acting as though there 


132 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

were no line drawn between the sexes. 
Warren has been on intimate terms with 
our family from his birth, as were his peo- 
ple before him, I should regret any strained 
relations brought about by our niece.” Had 
she been my mother or my mother’s sister 
I should at once have opened my heart to 
her, but no one could confide in Aunt 
Drusilla with any sense of relief. Instead, 
I avoided the question by saying, rather 
wickedly, I admit, “ Did it ever occur to 
you. Aunt Drusilla, that the fence between 
the sexes, which you speak of having existed 
in your girlhood, is being taken down by 
these very women we are going to hear talk 
this afternoon } ” 

‘‘No, nothing so untrue or unreasonable 
could occur to me,” she replied, indig- 
nantly, — forgetting Mr. Hartwell. “ These 
women are the nobility of the land ; they 
are the pioneers, directed by a ruling hand 
to clear the world of wrongs, to free their 
sister slaves of the spirit oppressed for 
centuries by selfish man.” 

“They may be all that,” I replied, “and 
still be responsible for the new independ- 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 1 33 

ence common to the younger generation of 
women. They have given a push to liberty 
of thought which is invariably followed by 
liberty of action. I do not condemn them 
for what they have done ; I honour them, but 
I only suggested that you are inconsistent 
in blaming the girls for being what their 
mothers are making them. Let them vote 
by all means, I say, then take the conse- 
quences.” 

You show your ignorance by laying at 
our door any advocacy of liberty between 
sexes,” she replied. ‘‘Our war-cry is ‘the 
individual right : ’ give every woman her 
individual rights as a human being ; give 
her elevation of mind ; throw light upon 
her intelligence and she will raise the stand- 
ards of the world and pull men up after 
her.” 

“ But, my dear aunt, the freedom of the 
single individual means the freedom of all 
individuals. The woman does not live 
her life isolated with her freedom from 
the rest of the world. Freedom is a con- 
dition existing between individuals. If 
she lived alone she would of necessity be 


134 her boston experiences 

free because there would be no one to 
interfere with her actions.” 

“You are entirely mistaken; your prem- 
ises are all wrong. Political rights are 
distinct and apart from the right to burn 
your neighbour’s house down if you are so 
inclined. I fear, Margaret, you have im- 
bibed anarchistic views in Paris or among 
the kind of Bostonians you meet at Miss 
Thurlston’s.” 

The distinctive feature of a woman’s 
argument is the feminine knowledge of how 
to tack. If the wind blows too hard from 
one quarter she veers, then asserts that she 
was stronger than the wind. Aunt Drusilla 
had the art of tacking to perfection. I 
dropped the subject. As we went into 
King’s Chapel she said, firmly, “I hope 
you understand, Margaret, that what I 
said about Warren Hartwell amounts 
to a request from your hostess and 
aunt.” 

“ Certainly I understand. Aunt Dru- 
silla,” and to myself I echoed, “Warren 
Hartwell is the best-connected young man 
in Boston.” 



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HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 1 3 / 

When of a Sunday afternoon I had gone 
to King’s Chapel to vesper services, the 
quaint church with its high-backed box-pews 
cushioned in red stuff, its old-English gal- 
lery, and high pulpit reached by winding 
stairs, gave me a sense of peace and spiri- 
tual rest. Although the church doctrines 
are now Unitarian, the form of worship is 
almost identical with the old ritual used 
before the Trinitarian belief was exchanged 
for the newer faith. The combination lends 
a humanitarian spirit to the form of worship 
and to the wise, simple words of the good 
man who preaches there. I have sat in my 
high-backed pew overlooking the ancient 
burying-ground and wondered what the hu- 
man relics lying beneath those headstones 
would think of the violin solo floating out 
upon the quiet air from the choir-loft above 
my head, could their senses quicken again 
for a moment. 

Those dead were probably not imbued 
with the Calvinistic spirit of their doctrinal 
opponents lying now in the Old Granary 
burying-ground of the Park Street Church 
across the street a block away ; but still I 


138 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

think they would be surprised at the advance 
of ideas they must meet with if they ever 
look in at those windows. How would one 
of the grand dames lying out there take the 
meeting we attended that day } I fancy 
she would shudder at some of the opinions 
advanced, provided she understood them in 
the least. But there was nothing at which 
a modern mind could shudder in the expres- 
sions of those women. First of all, they 
were sincere, — an element in their work or 
any one’s work which cannot be too highly 
valued. Not among that entire assemblage 
did I note a face spotted with the stains of 
the flesh. They were distinctly high, if fre- 
quently narrow-minded, women. Even if, 
as some do hold, the emancipationists are 
mistaken in their cause, their enthusiasm 
must either be ennobling or a high class of 
women comprehend the suffrage idea. They 
were mostly middle-aged or elderly women 
of unworldly appearance as to dress ; in fact, 
one could label the assembly as a meet-, 
ing of cultivated, conscientious, corsetless 
women. Without exception they spoke ably 
and authoritatively, even when ingenuity 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 1 39 

was required to disguise their arguments as 
flimsy and unstable. 

The most convincing argument I ever 
heard upon the question of women’s politi- 
cal rights was made by a man, and it was 
convincing because, instead of dwelling 
upon the oppression and slavery to his sex, 
which the majority of women will not admit 
to be their position, he brought out the one 
argument, incapable of refutation, that if a 
woman of intelligence holds property she 
has at least as much right to say how it 
shall be disposed of by State or municipal 
law as has some ignorant foreigner with not 
a penny nor an inch of ground to his name. 
If the suffragists would dwell upon a few 
such practical, salient points they might 
arouse a widespread enthusiasm among 
women, without which their cause will never 
succeed. Aunt Drusilla could not induce 
even her own daughters to attend these 
meetings, and out of a dozen women I heard 
her invite for that particular occasion, I 
alone accepted her invitation ; confessedly, 
out of curiosity. 

I had never before seen Aunt Drusilla 


140 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 


unbend as she did at the close of the meet- 
ing, mingling among the sisters of the faith. 
Every one congratulated every one else, 
with the exclamation, “ How interesting the 
meeting has been to-day ! Unusually so, I 
think. The cause progresses ; I hope I 
may live to see the day of our great success. 
It is bound to come ! ” 

I left my aunt in this hopeful frame of 
mind and walked home for the sake of exer- 
cise. In my room I found awaiting me my 
long-lost photograph, with a note from Mr. 
Hartwell in which he said : 

“ My Dear Miss Allston : — Kindly permit 
me to return this photograph of you which I found 
last fall in a book in Bates Hall at the Public Li- 
brary. If you condemn me for keeping it after 
I recognised the original, my only excuse is to be 
found in the hope I had of securing your ultimate 
permission to retain it among my choice posses- 
sions. 

“ This hope you have distinctly shown me to be 
futile, and I return the photograph with many 
apologies for not having done so earlier. I am 
leaving town to-day, so will bid you good-bye now, 
as you have given me to understand that my 
presence is obnoxious to you. I regret having 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 14I 

heightened your already poor opinion of my fellow 
citizens, because I had learned to value that 
opinion. 

“ Believe me most sincerely yours, 

“ Warren Hartwell.” 

Something unusual happened to me after 
reading that letter. I tore my photograph 
in two, threw it on the grate fire and cried 
over the letter. If he had waited until he 
was punished enough I should have tried to 
forgive him. Men are so obtuse, especially 
Boston men. Could he have left town with- 
out coming to the house at all ? The family 
would never forgive me. How unfortunate ! 


CHAPTER V 



HE month of February passed, dupli- 


J- eating with variations the gay and 
serious entertainments I have already de- 
scribed, but without a word from Warren 
Hartwell. He had called upon the family 
that afternoon while I was at the woman’s 
suffrage meeting, but finding no one at 
home, he left his card for Aunt Drusilla, 
with the word “good-bye’- written in one 
corner. No one in town seemed to know 
where he had gone, but you may be sure 
there were rumours of infinite variety. 

One cold, blustering night in early March, 
after a day of winds which made one feel 
like a centripetal force drawing the blasts 
of the earth toward a common and unfor- 
tunate centre, we all sat around the library 
open fire, where the logs crackled spitefully 
at every new blast from across the river. 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES I43 


Uncle John sat by, reading the Transcript. 
Dorothy had been dining with us previous 
to attending a rehearsal of the private 
theatricals to be given after Easter and in 
which she was to take a minor part. Fred 
was in New York. Elizabeth, looking over 
at her sister, asked, ‘‘ What is all this talk I 
hear about Warren ? Does Fred know any- 
thing .? 

“ He has probably heard what you have. 
He knows nothing.’' 

Elizabeth continued, A woman came up 
to me this afternoon at the loan exhibition 
at the Grundmann studios and asked me if 
I knew the truth about Warren Hartwell. 
She went on to say that everybody said he 
had followed out West a vaudeville actress 
whose picture he carries around with him 
and shows everywhere, and she actually 
asked me if it were true.” 

“ The idear ! ” broke in Aunt Drusilla. 
‘‘How scandalous ! How dare they say such 
a thing about a Hartwell ! I hope you told 
her the truth, Elizabeth.” 

“I do not know the truth, mother. I 
told her I knew that Warren was above any 


144 BOSTON EXPERIENCES 


such liaison, but I have heard different 
versions of that picture story all winter.” 

Dorothy looked at me and my eyes fell. 

‘‘ Don’t believe one word they say, Eliza- 
beth,” Dorothy said, quickly. ^ Surely you 
don’t believe everything you hear. Young 
men are always being talked about, and — ” 

‘‘Stop, Dorothy,” I said. “Give some 
better excuse than that for him or none at 
all.” 

They all looked at me, except Uncle John, 
who was immersed in his paper. “ If you 
wish to know the truth about the photo- 
graph, I can give it to you,” I continued, 
feeling like an army recruit in his first 
battle. “Mr. Hartwell has been carrying 
about and showing at the club a photograph 
of me, which he found in a library book 
where I left it.” 

“ The idear ! ” exclaimed Aunt Drusilla. 
“John, do you hear that ? ” 

“ Yes, my dear,” uncle responded, ab- 
sently, reading on. 

Then Dorothy and I between us went 
into details, telling what we thought we 
knew. I explained that Mr. Hartwell had 


HER BOSTON- EXPERIENCES 1 45 

returned to me the object under discussion 
the day he left town. Elizabeth said, quietly, 
‘‘I do not believe Warren showed your 
photograph at the club, Margaret. Warren 
has always been a gentleman.” 

Dorothy insisted that Fred had heard all 
about when and how he did it, but some 
way or another I could not corroborate her 
belief by my own evidence. I was forced 
into an explanation, but I could not bring 
myself to dye the villain blacker than he 
was already painted. In the midst of the 
discussion Uncle John dropped his paper 
and in an awed voice exclaimed, “Louise 
French is dead ! ” 

“ Dead ! ” the three women echoed. 

“ Yes, here is the notice : ‘ French. — At 
Aiken, March 5, Louise Hartwell French, 
wife of Samuel L. French. Funeral ser- 
vices to be held at her late residence, Marl- 
borough Street, at 1 1 a . m ., March 9.’ Then 
here is a personal notice saying she died sud- 
denly, attended by her husband and brother, 
who have been with her for some time past 
and who will accompany the remains home.” 

While my relatives, each in her different 


146 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

way, expressed her grief for a lifelong 
friend, my mind dwelt upon that friend’s 
brother. He had been at Aiken with his 
invalid sister while the town was ringing 
with gossip concerning his movements. 
Why could not the other reports be untrue, 
too } But if they were, how did Mr. Bradley 
know he possessed a photograph and the 
men at the club know it was my likeness, 
unless he had shown it No ; there was a 
clear case against him, and I felt my teeth 
close hard together even while I pitied him 
in his grief for his only sister. 

The death of Mrs. French brought about 
a cessation of gaieties, including even the 
minor diversions of the Lenten season, not 
only among the members of our own house- 
hold, but also among several families all of 
whom had been friends of the Hartwells 
personally or ancestrally since the Revolu- 
tion at the latest. Bostonians have two 
particular occasions when they are demon- 
strative, — in case of death, or indefinite 
departure. This state lasted for a week or 
two, and was only broken by the grand 
opera season. 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 1 47 

There is no one feature of Boston more 
astonishing, considering the claims the city 
lays to musical enlightenment, than the kind 
of building in which Bostonians, at that 
time, listened to grand opera during the few 
weeks of the year when the New York com- 
pany visited Boston. 

Opera was given in a mammoth barn 
called Mechanics’ Building, built for food 
fairs, horse shows, and other like diversions. 
Its seating capacity is large, its hearing 
capacity infinitely small. At the back of 
the galleries the singers resembled puppets 
moving about in pantomime. Even the 
De Reszkes and Plangon, with their great 
volume of vocal tone, could scarcely be 
heard in many parts of the house. The 
seats are rudely made of wood, and are on 
a par as to comfort with the reserve at a 
circus. The draughts come and go at will, 
consequently the women hesitated to wear 
evening costumes. However, a sprinkling 
of such attire was always to be found 
amidst the otherwise plainly dressed audi- 
ence. The victims amiably, year after year, 
paid fabulous prices for these disagreeable 


148 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

places ; which fact of itself argues for their 
appreciation of opera as much as their ab- 
surd submission to conditions which could 
easily be remedied, argues against it. At 
last the prevailing rebellion against such 
operatic accommodations took form and 
were met by a transference of the annual 
week of opera to a large theatre, where the 
price of admittance was raised far beyond 
the limit of the average pocketbook. 

Between acts we would wrap up in opera 
cloaks to avoid pneumonia, and promenade 
barren, black, dirty corridors for a bit of 
display under the name of sociability. Of 
course, everybody with connections was 
there, not to speak of the several thousand 
people besides, who in reality supported the 
enterprise by crowding to hear popular 
opera favourites, regardless of the merits of 
the opera or performance. Boston may 
move on a highly discriminating plane 
orchestrally ; she certainly does not operati- 
cally. 

Dorothy’s friends rivalled each other in 
entertaining the expensive vocalists, — at 
least, they entertained those who did not 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 1 49 

decline all invitations, as was the case with 
the superlatively great artists Jean and 
Edward De Reszke and Calve, whose fame 
is built on a firmer rock than society favour. 
Frances Thurlston knew several of the 
singers well, personally ; an acquaintance 
dating back some ten years in Paris. I 
enjoyed meeting them quietly at her apart- 
ment much more than at a crowded “ after- 
noon,” or even at a dinner. With Frances 
they were good comrades, not roaring lions ; 
but with only a few exceptions, opera singers 
are more interesting on the stage than in a 
social capacity. 

After several weeks Mr. Hartwell re- 
sumed his familiar visits at Uncle John’s. 
My relatives had apparently forgotten the 
incident of the picture, or chose to ignore 
it out of respect for Warren’s bereavement. 

He was much changed. He talked but 
little to any one, scarcely at all to me. I 
avoided him as much as possible. The 
author, Mr. Bradley, was in close attend- 
ance upon me by that time. He said he 
had undertaken to teach me Bostonese. 
Although himself a Bostonian of impeccable 


150 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

connections, he possessed the faculty of 
laughing at himself and of enjoying more 
than one kind of life. He insisted that 
Frances Thurlston furnished him more ma- 
terial than any one other person he had ever 
known. She almost liked him. They were 
like two men together. He was always 
making a note of her expressions. He con- 
ducted Frances and me all about the city, 
making himself invaluable to us by his 
actual knowledge and humourous style of 
narrative. It seems a pity he does not put 
more of himself into his books, and less of 
literary characters. 

Easter came late that year, bringing a lull 
in the winds and many attractive symptoms 
of spring. One place of interest to which 
Mr. Bradley introduced us, merely as a 
glimpse of Boston at one point, not for any 
particular merit the exhibit displayed that 
year or any year, was the annual exhibition 
of pictures at the Art Club. Mr. Bradley 
insisted that his wit was only an editorial 
revision of the conversations he overheard 
at this exhibition. Of course, you know,” 
said he, ‘‘ nobody but a few of the girl stu- 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 151 

dents at the Art Museum come to look at 
the pictures.” 

“What do the rest come for?” I in- 
quired, while Frances, who had left us sit- 
ting on one of the benches located in the 
middle of the room, walked up very close 
to a picture, looked at it keenly through 
squinted eyelids, then slowly stepped back- 
ward in approved fashion, gradually gaining 
a proper distance and in so doing upset a 
little man who was making funnels of his 
hands for the purpose of artistic focus. 
“ They come to look at each other, — Bos- 
tonians are so picturesque, you know. Ten 
thousand blisters ! ” laughed Mr. Bradley. 
“ She’s upset Foller ! He was focussing 
the vanishing-point ! She broke into the 
middle ground ! He’d forgive her for libel 
or theft, but never for that ! ” 

“ Who is the man ? ” I asked. 

“ Foller ! Don’t you know him ? There’s 
one of his prize things over there. Got 
three thousand for it several years ago. 
Hasn’t made a penny since.” 

As we sat there I began to believe what 
he said was true. Most of the people 


152 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

glanced cursorily at the pictures, and, after 
one quick tour about the rooms, relapsed 
into chatter. The art exhibition, at night, 
anyway, seemed to be but a social gathering 
decorated by the pictures on the walls. 
What else can be expected when so little 
of vital interest is exhibited } At the Art 
Museum one can see good pictures, also at 
the yearly loan exhibit, where there are col- 
lected the best to be found among the 
private possessions of the dilettante collect- 
ors ; but an Art Club exhibition is, as a 
rule, far below the average as a whole, and 
there seems to be no satisfactory explana- 
tion of the fact. 

In the Art Museum there are good 
pictures, casts, marbles, tapestries, laces, 
and many other beautiful objects suffi- 
cient to claim one’s attention indefinitely ; 
but having seen quantities of much the 
same thing before, I was more interested 
in watching the girl students of the school 
connected with the Museum pour out on to 
the streets, conspicuous in working blouses 
and great gingham aprons daubed liberally 
with impressionist colours, at the sound 







BOSTON ART MUSEUM 




HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 155 

of a passing band. They chattered and 
munched candy or cakes from the con- 
fectioner’s hard by, giggling and frisking 
about in true student ways ; then like 
a flock of sheep they scurried back to 
work. And even more was I interested 
in the great number of Italians who con- 
gregate in this building of a Sunday after- 
noon, when there is no admission fee. 
Among the miscellaneous crowd collected 
there on Sunday these Italian women, 
some in gay garments, others in plain 
dark clothes, invariably brightened by a 
brilliant handkerchief or scarf about the 
neck or draped on the head,* lend bright 
patches of colour to the throng. They 
seldom wear hats, even in cold weather. 
The men are less picturesque in attire, 
but are equally so in face and gesture. 
Mr. Bradley accounted for their choice 
of that particular place for Sunday rendez- 
vous by their native taste for the best 
expression of art obtainable without cost. 
He took us over the North End, a part 
of which is now relegated to these Italians. 
The most picturesque of them make a 


156 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

living by grinding orchestrions and rattling 
tambourines on the streets of new Boston. 
The dagos sell bananas and work as day- 
labourers. Over there we investigated 
North Square, which is said to have more 
historical associations than any other spot 
in America. Until within a half-century 
it was a fashionable centre, but now the 
Paul Revere house is the most famous 
landmark within its precincts, carrying us 
back in thought to 1775^ Near it stands 
the old Hichborn house, of much later 
date. The site of the first Old North 
Church, where the three Mathers preached, 
is adjacent. Sir Henry Frankland, who 
gained notoriety by marrying Agnes Sur- 
riage, a servant at a Marblehead inn, also 
resided on this square, next door to 
^‘Stingy Tommy” Hutchinson, who was 
governor as early as 1771. Along there 
Major Pitcairn had his headquarters dur- 
ing the Revolutionary War, not far from 
where the first public markets were lo- 
cated, adjacent to a watch-house, fire- 
engine station, and town pump. 

When one can shut one’s eyes to the 



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HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 1 59 

present condition of North Square, permit- 
ting these characters, with their signifi- 
cance, to file through one’s brain, the 
North End is well worth visiting ; but 
when one walks up Salem Street with 
a strong desire to sing aloud, My name 
is Solomon Levi, I live on Salem Street,” 
owing to the uninterrupted Semitic charac- 
ter of the shops and their contents, then 
comes upon Christ Church, in whose 
belfry Robert Newman, its sexton, hung 
the now celebrated signal-lights, standing 
in its original aspect except for that signal- 
light steeple long ago blown down and 
replaced by one of Bulfinch’s design, the 
incongruity is historically bewildering and 
disturbing. The neighbourhood is incon- 
sistent. One wishes American history were 
commemorated by fenced-off localities into 
which no foreign elements could penetrate 
and discolour. 

Then we saw the narrowest street in 
Boston, which is saying as little as possible 
for its width. It is called Salutation, and 
is too narrow to admit of a sidewalk. The 
trite complaint of tourists that Boston 


l6o HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

streets are bewildering in their turns and 
twists is a one-sided view of the city, 
a view confined to the old North End and 
the commercial portions of the newer city. 
The Back Bay and South End are stereo- 
typed enough in regularity to suit any taste 
for parallel lines. Mr. Bradley related how 
his grandfather told him, as a child, about 
the life at the Red Lion, The King’s Head, 
and Ship Tavern, and about travelling to 
Troy, New York, in a stage, — the longest 
trip the old gentleman had ever taken. 
‘‘But the old boy thought he knew the 
world,” said his grandson, who was, with- 
out doubt, as “well connected” as any 
Bostonian with whom I was acquainted, 
and the only one who spoke of his ancestry 
as if it did not amount to much,. But he 
had lived most of his life in Europe. How- 
ever, his intimate personal relation to the 
past brought those days close to us as we 
strayed with him about the North End. 
He insisted that only once was he con- 
cerned about his ancestry, and that was 
when he walked through the Common 
at the time the earth of the old burying- 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES l6l 


ground there was being broken up for 
the purpose of running the subway under- 
neath. “ I believe I caught a chill at the 
tomb of some of my ancestors. As I stood 
talking to the men about some relics they 
had found, I suddenly remembered that this 
was the tomb of some of my maternal con- 
nections way back, and that chill came on,” 
he said, without much evidence of the ague. 

I do not remember any man whom I 
liked better than I did John Bradley. 
Everybody liked him. He said people 
always liked him too much to love him, 
especially women. 

This must have been my case, because 
I wished several times I could love him. 
John Bradley had not a particle of the 
Boston man’s pose. He never took him- 
self too seriously. He looked at one when 
one was speaking quite as though he were 
gaining information or pleasure ; generally 
the latter. Yes, John Bradley would be an 
interesting husband for some one. 

On Easter Sunday I started out alone 
on foot, intending to call for Frances, as 
we had arranged to attend service to- 


1 62 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

gether. The day was moist and warm. 
I welcomed spring with every breath. 
Along Beacon Street, in the tiny grass 
plots belonging to each house, the crocuses 
were nodding their heads in tune with the 
spring melodies in the air. 

All about the bold equestrian statue 
of Washington at the Arlington Street 
entrance to the Public Gardens the hya- 
cinths bloomed profusely, scenting the air 
deliciously. I made a little ddtour for the 
sake of the loveliness all about, walking 
slowly toward the bridged lake, where al- 
ready the swan-boats had begun to ply 
for the benefit of the happy children. 
Alone, on a bench under a budding tree, 
sat a man whose back I recognised. 

He faced the lake, and did not see me ; 
but he looked so lonely, sitting there with 
his head slightly bowed, that even his top 
hat with its band of mourning and his 
immaculate frock coat could not stiffen the 
relaxed, forsaken look about him. I might 
easily have turned back, but my weak heart 
proved stronger than my will. I wore fas- 
tened to my jacket a bunch of lilies-of-the- 



“I 


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HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 1 6 $ 

valley. Unfastening them, I slowly walked 
past him and dropped the lilies into one of 
his hands, which lay open, palm up, on his 
knee. My honest intention was to pass on 
without a word, but the tone of his “ Mar- 
garet ! ” held me. We looked at each other 
silently for a moment, then I smiled : 
whereupon rising and removing his hat, he 
asked, “ Did you intend these for me or for 
some tramp upon whom you took pity ? ” 
knew your back,” I replied. ‘‘You 
looked so lonely — ” I hesitated. 

“ Oh, it was pity, then, in any case ? ” 
he said. “Well, I am lonely, — there is 
no use to deny it.” 

Avoiding the subject, I said, “ I had no 
idea a Bostonian with connections would 
do anything so plebeian as to sit in the 
Public Gardens on a bench.” 

“You seem to forget that Bostonians 
are human beings, after all ; that they 
have hearts as well as connections, — hearts 
not easily stirred, but enduring in affection.” 

I tried to swallow my own heart at that 
moment : it leaped high ; then, impetuously, 
I stepped nearer to him and held out my 


1 66 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 


hand. ‘‘ Come and go to church with Miss 
Thurlston and me, won’t you } ” 

Do you mean it ? Do you want me ? ” 
x^Yes ; this is a day on which to for- 
give. I can’t leave you sitting there alone.” 

“Well, I suppose pity is better than 
nothing,” he said, moving along by my 
side. “I will go. I cannot yet admit 
that I ever committed any great breach of 
etiquette toward you; but you seem to 
think I did, so even momentary forgive- 
ness is a good deal, coming from you.” 

“Don’t let us talk about it any more, 
Mr. Hartwell,” I said. “ Smell the flowers, 
listen to the chimes, and thank God for all 
we have and are. When I think of my 
own mistakes I can afford to forgive for at 
least one day, when it is a day like this.” 

“Could you forgive that man who let 
you tie your own shoe string on his step ? ” 
inquired he, with the gayest look I had 
seen on his face since Christmas. 

“ Yes, even that man, provided he would 
do penance by tying it now,” I replied, 
without any particular thought. 

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HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 1 69 

knew what he was doing, down he went 
on one knee on the grass beside the bench 
and was tying my shoe-string, which was 
dragging. A well-connected Bostonian on 
one knee, Easter morning, in the Public 
Gardens ! What if some one should see 
us ” I gasped. 

Why should you care ” he replied, giv- 
ing the bows an extra pull before he stood 
up. *‘Yo\i are not a Bostonian.” 

“ Well, do you mean to say you are the 
man who laughed at me that day in the 
rain } ” 

What else could a man do ? That was 
my sister’s house. The day I landed I 
was taken with the most ridiculous dis- 
ease a grown man could have, — measles. 
I caught them from my sister’s children. I 
was shut up for several weeks at her house ; 
you know I crossed earlier than I intended. 
That rainy day I was getting fierce with 
boredom. While roaming about the house 
I chanced into the drawing-room and looked 
out to examine the weather. I arrived on 
the scene just in time to see a woman try- 
ing to tie her boot lace. You looked as 


I/O HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

though you were swearing. Were you.^ 
Then you glanced up at me, and what dis- 
dain your face took on ! With that one blast 
of scorn you turned away and stumbled on, 
believing, I suppose, that I had been a 
witness of the entire performance. Did 
I laugh } How could a man help it } I 
never forgot your face, anyway.” 

‘‘And you did not tell me in all these 
months ! ” I asked, laughing in spite of 
myself at the remembrance. 

“That is the way Bostonians leave an 
impression of great knowledge. They tell 
enough and intimate the rest, as I have 
done, thus working on the imagination of 
the listener with great effect. Don’t you 
think.? Then, too, when a woman has a 
poor opinion of a man to begin on, he is not 
likely to tell the worst until he finds the 
case hopeless. I — ” 

“Here, turn to the right, up Boylston 
Street,” I interrupted. “ Have you forgot- 
ten the way .? ” 

“ No, but a glimpse of happiness some- 
times obscures a man’s vision. Where did 
you say we were going .? ” 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES l/l 

‘‘To join Miss Thurlston, then to 
church.” 

“ And pick up Bradley on the way ? ” he 
asked, with affected indifference. 

“ Mr. Bradley is out of town,” I said, 
looking away from him. 

“ I am glad to hear that. Do you know. 
Miss Allston, I started through the Garden 
this morning in rather a desperate mood. 
The taste of spring in the air, as I breathed 
it, enticed me into sitting down among the 
flowers. I was thinking, when you came 
up, what a poor use of the world’s beauty 
we make — at least, those of us who live 
cooped up amidst brick and mortar. Ordi- 
nary men in cities become so dependent 
upon human beings and human thought that 
when trouble comes they do not know how 
to turn to the wonderful expressions of God 
which speak to the poet or to any artistic 
temperament.” 

I listened to Mr. Hartwell with deep 
respect, because I knew how difficult it must 
be for a man of his reserved nature to put 
such thoughts into words. I knew he was 
addressing one whom he held dear to 


1/2 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

himself, otherwise he would have thought 
without speaking. 

‘‘Yes,” I said, gently. “We of the artistic 
temperament have many joys and many 
sorrows other people do not know.” 

“ Take a chap like Bradley,” he went on. 
“He is always expressing himself, finding 
form for everything he feels ; but some- 
times I wonder if such men feel as deeply 
as I, who am pent up.” 

“No, I do not believe they do feel like 
your kind ; or perhaps their feeling is as 
deep, but it is not lasting. Their power of 
expression relieves them and makes room 
for newer feelings. I would trust your kind 
for strength and endurance more than I 
would the other.” 

“ Is that honest ” he asked, looking 
down at me with the eyes of a man not 
used to being conquered, — with an unwill- 
ing delight there. 

“Yes,” I replied, hurriedly; “but here 
we are at Miss Thurlston’s.” 

“ Wait a moment. Could I do anything 
to make you forget my mistake about the 
picture ? ” 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 1 73 

Nothing but disprove the facts.” 

His face lengthened, and we walked up 
the steps of the apartment house together 
without speaking. After church Mr. Hart- 
well went home with me to Easter dinner, 
being engaged previously as a guest at that 
feast ; but he relapsed into a spiritless man- 
ner toward me, and after that day I rarely 
saw him. He was not going out socially, 
and after that Easter Day talk he came 
seldom to our house. Always once a week 
flowers were sent me without a card. Al- 
though my instinct assured me of the 
source of this weekly offering, I could not 
refuse to enjoy the flowers nor to be 
secretly glad of the remembrance. 

We were once more deep in social labours. 
I am nearly certain that Elizabeth attended, 
on an average, four chamber concerts and 
recitals weekly, besides the Symphony Re- 
hearsal. Even my absorbing interest in 
music could not urge me to such immoder- 
ate attendance. What one values one must 
not exhaust. Elizabeth was conscientious 
in her pleasure as well as in her industry. 
She laboured at piano practice long after the 


1/4 her boston experiences 

spirit which achieved was fagged, and urged 
by the same Puritan rod she religiously 
attended concerts for fear she might fail in 
her duty toward the art she held the highest. 
Musical fanaticism is not so prevalent in 
Boston as in Germany, but there are indica- 
tions of individual tendency that way. 

Dorothy took me to the only club meet- 
ing I was ever known to enjoy, and the 
reason for this result lay in the fact that 
the Playgoers was a club only in name and 
membership, while in fact its meetings were 
receptions at which local celebrities and 
others convened for the purpose of lionising 
some distinguished actor, author, or singer. 

Frances Thurlston was there that after- 
noon, accompanied by John Bradley’s sister 
and her latest ‘‘ freak,” of whom she plainly 
was getting a surfeit. This Professor 
Langdon Frances called her peripatetic 
poet. 

There was no certainty as to which 
branch of knowledge he professed particu- 
larly ; certainly there were few in which he 
had not lingered more ambitiously than 
famously. He had lectured, preached, 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 1 75 

taught school, and scribbled over the major 
part of the United States, judging from his 
frequent and unreserved personal revela- 
tions. If there was a single celebrity he 
had not known intimately, we had never 
heard of him or her, and his memory for 
other people’s thoughts and sayings was 
marvellous and tiresome. 

We are all plagiarists, as for that ; but 
some of us prefer our own feeble turn of 
expression to unending quotation of more 
heroic forms. Professor Langdon was 
verging on to fifty. His figure was the 
best thing about him, and would have been 
better clothed in garments large enough 
to fit. His inevitable frock coat separated 
widely at the usual meeting of the tails in 
the back, and even wider across the chest. 
We wondered many times if a hat of the 
right size would have been more expensive 
than one many times too small for his long 
auburn curls. Between valuable quotations, 
of which his conversation was composed, he 
would pause for an ecstatic moment, shut 
his eyes, and raise his face heavenward for 
inspiration. There were many indications 


1/6 her boston experiences 

pointing to our belief that he subsisted 
entirely on onions. Mr. Bradley called him 
Saint Bermuda, insisting that Frances was 
fated to cultivate the fruits of his knowl- 
edge indefinitely, possibly maritally. 

If ever Frances hated one man more than 
most men, the unfortunate was Saint Ber- 
muda, and the more she hated the more 
he reverenced her. He told us once he 
honoured strength, even when it was 
directed against himself. John Bradley 
merely looked at us, articulating with his 
lips Bermudas ? ” That afternoon he had 
joined Frances and Miss Bradley on the 
street and, with his usual genial intimacy, 
attached, himself to their party. Accord- 
ingly, the first people we saw at the Play- 
goers were the Professor in an interval of 
silent, closed-eyed ecstasy while talking 
to Miss Bradley, and John Bradley, con- 
doling humourously near by with Frances, 
who looked fierce. Needless to say the 
Professor attracted much attention. He 
seemed to know nearly everybody in the 
room, and in a few moments had got him- 
self presented to the lion of the occasion, 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 1 7/ 

who, being a foreigner, wrote afterward, in 
the first chapter of his impressions of 
America, that Bostonians wore clothes too 
small for them, ate onions, and quoted 
poetry to excess ; which passage plainly 
evinced that Saint Bermuda’s was the 
strongest personality he met in Boston. I 
never saw a Mormon preacher, but Pro- 
fessor Langdon always reminded me of one. 

From the Playgoers I left Dorothy and 
went with Frances and her party to an 
Italian restaurant for dinner. When Bos- 
tonians break out with a desire for flesh- 
pots, they hie them to an Italian restaurant 
as the straightest course to Egypt ; whereas, 
a newborn babe is hardly more virtuous 
than one of those eating-houses, where 
bad manners and bad tobacco are the only 
indications of bad morals to be seen. 

Professor Langdon insisted that after 
dinner we must accompany him to one of 
the most interesting and cultured meetings 
ever held in Boston, where we would have 
a chance to talk with earnest, spiritual- 
minded people at their club called by some 
Greek name, meaning the doorway or arch- 


1/8 her boston experiences 

way, if I recall it correctly. Mr. Bradley 
added his persuasions so gravely and per- 
sistently that I viewed him with suspicion. 
I knew he scented ‘‘copy” or “larks,” the 
two objects of his existence. And so we 
went to the club with the Greek name ; a 
party, as Mr. Bradley confided to me, com- 
posed of several “ freaks ” and himself, — 
representative Bostonians. 


CHAPTER VI 

S AINT BERMUDA’S promised gath- 
ering of exalted spirits surpassed even 
his own personality in unique entertain- 
ment. Many of Frances Thurlston’s 
coterie were present, but the predominat- 
ing element was representative of the 
Cambridge Conferences and the Theosoph- 
ical cult. At one side of the room stood a 
young man whom at first I mistook for 
a mulatto. He was surrounded by women, 
upon whom he cast rather weary glances 
out of large, innocent, bovine eyes. He 
spoke seldom ; whether from lack of words 
or opportunity, one could not say at a 
glance. 

You have not met Swami ! ” exclaimed 
Saint Bermuda. ‘‘ His is a grand soul. 
He is teaching us, in the words of my 
friend, Hamilton Mabie, that ‘ Culture’s 
179 


l8o HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

distinctive characteristic is not extent, but 
quality of knowledge ; not range, but vital- 
ity of knowledge ; not scope of activity, but 
depth of life.’ Swami is a grand soul ! ” 
But who is Swami } And why do the 
women swarm so ” I persisted. 

“ Boston bees about a Hindoo flower, 
sucking spiritual honey,” interposed Brad- 
ley. 

‘‘ A Hindoo priest, you mean ? ” 

Exactly ; or idol, I should say, to look 
at the worshiping women,” he replied, with 
serious disdain. 

‘‘ How can they act so over any man ? ” 
sniffed Frances. 

‘‘ Ah ! he is a grand soul, Miss Thurls- 
ton,” replied Saint Bermuda. “Are you 
not inspired in his presence, as his follow- 
ers are, in the words of our great poet, 
Lowell, to 

“ ‘ Be noble ! and the nobleness that lies 

In other men, sleeping, but never dead, 

Will rise in majesty to meet thine own ’ ? ” 

“ I can’t say that I am,” replied Frances, 
with scorn. “He looks as bored as the 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES i8l 

baby lion at the Zoo used to when the 
women patted him and tried to kiss him.” 

‘‘That is but Swami’s bodily fatigue,” 
exclaimed a feminine Theosophist standing 
with us. “His eternal ego, his spiritual 
essence, grasps and holds the higher life 
ever before our more backward being. 
Nirvana stands as a mountain-top before 
his gaze. His spirit rises slowly toward 
that eminence under transitory forms 
and — ” 

“As my friend John Fiske says,” inter- 
rupted Saint Bermuda, “ when God re- 
vealed himself to his ancient prophet he 
came not in the earthquake nor the tem- 
pest, but in a voice that was still and 
small ; so that divine spark, the soul, as 
it takes up its abode in this realm of fleet- 
ing phenomena, chooses — ” 

“Oh, Professor Langdon,” broke in a 
voice I seemed to have heard before, “we 
have not seen you at our ‘ evenings ' this 
winter ! Are you deserting us, or is liter- 
ary work taking all your time ? ” 

A laugh followed, asserting the identity 
of the speaker. I had met her at the 


1 82 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 


Lesters’. Turning to Mr. Bradley, she 
went on, So glad to have a chance to 
tell you how much I enjoyed your new 
book. Having heard so much talk and 
criticism about it, I was surprised to find 
it so good. Americans have such poor taste 
in literature. I like everything you write.” 

“You are very good,” murmured John 
Bradley, trying to hide the joke he saw on 
himself. We escaped, and crossed the 
room to meet Swami. I found him an 
intelligent Hindoo, who spoke good, though 
limited, English. He confessed that it 
surprised him to find such an earnest fol- 
lowing of his own religion as came under 
his observation in a Christian community 
like Boston. 

Presently there was some very bad vocal 
music made by a corpulent lady wearing 
a dress altogether too short in the skirt 
for grace, and too tight in the waist to 
admit of a proper exhibition of her method 
of breathing, — the feature of vocal life in 
Boston which really supplants the impor- 
tance of singing. Judging from the con- 
versation of singing pupils in Boston, one 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 1 83 

can easily fancy that song is produced by 
some mechanical contortions carried on 
below the waist, regardless of beauty or 
health. This singer was a method con- 
tortionist. People who dwell altogether 
in either their souls or brains have poor 
taste in music, but even they can recog- 
nise all lack of sentiment in singing, and, 
accordingly, no one heeded her muscular 
efforts. Everybody buzzed obliviously. 

Swami remained the centre of feminine 
gravity, and there were few men pres- 
ent to rival him in spiritual or mundane 
attractions. 

As we left the hall Mr. Bradley said, 
‘‘That was Hartwell who just passed us 
on the street. Did you see him } ” 

“ No,” I replied, looking back at the 
vanishing figure. 

“ He did not recognise us. His sister’s 
death seems to be wearing on him. He 
hardly looks himself. I hear he is going 
to England for the summer.” 

“ Indeed ! ” I said, as calmly as possible. 
“I had not heard that. When does he 
sail ? ” 


1 84 her boston experiences 

Next week, some of the men told me.” 

The day following I asked Elizabeth if 
she had heard that Mr. Hartwell was 
going abroad. She looked at me steadily, 
replying : “ Warren has not told me if he 
is going. He seems unhappy and lonely. 
Perhaps the trip would do him good.” 

<‘No doubt it would,” I replied, and we 
said no more. 

The next afternoon Elizabeth and I 
attended an afternoon tea at Copley Hall, 
given in connection with an exhibition of 
paintings by modern artists. Warren 
Hartwell was there, standing before a 
marine view which evidently pleased him. 
He stood holding his hat behind him with 
both hands, oblivious of his many acquaint- 
ances. 

I was determined to know if he intended 
to leave town soon or not ; consequently, 
I moved gradually in his direction. If 
Elizabeth saw him she made no sign, but 
joined some friends as I moved along 
before the pictures. Finally I reached his 
immediate neighbourhood. I tried to make 
him feel my presence without speaking. 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 1 8 $ 

and succeeded. He recovered himself 
with a sudden side movement of the head 
and a quick sigh. did not see you,” 
he said. “ When did you come } ” 

“ Several moments ago. Have you 
found something good } ” 

“Yes. There is the touch of Nature in 
this man's work. I wonder if any one 
else cares for the sea as much as I do. 
By the way, Miss Allston, to revert to 
rather a disagreeable subject, would you 
object to telling me how your photograph 
ever got into ‘The American Angler’s 
Book,’ a natural history of sporting fish ? 
This marine of the Gloucester fishermen 
reminds me of that strange coincidence, my 
own special hobby being fish and fishing.” 

“ Not really ! ” I exclaimed, almost seiz- 
ing his arm in my eager pleasure at this 
revelation. “Do you like deep-sea fish- 
ing ? Can you fish all day in a boat at sea 
under the broiling sun, eating lunch out of 
a tin pail, and wearing ‘ ilers ? ’ Can you 
do all this and enjoy every minute of it ? 
If you can I could almost forgive you — ” 
I hesitated. 


1 86 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

‘‘Almost — but not quite?” he asked, 
evidently controlling himself. 

“No. Not quite,” I replied, moving 
away, as I felt a great heat of colour 
come over my face. 

He stepped along beside me, replying in 
another voice, “And about the photo- 
graph ? ” 

“ Oh, don’t you understand ? We have 
the same hobby. Fishing is my mania. 
I have every edition of Izaak Walton pub- 
lished, and I have a room at home fitted 
up with reels, and rods, and flies, and 
trolling lines, — every kind of tackle. My 
father declares I am an evolution from a 
fish or a mermaid. That day I was look- 
ing up some facts about game fish, and put 
my photograph in the book to keep the 
place while I turned to speak to Miss 
Thurlston ; then forgot, and left it there.” 

“ Strange, indeed ! ” he replied. “ I 
went to Bates Hall to look at that same 
book. It would almost seem that you are 
flying in the face of Providence to treat 
me as you do. Have you no regard for 
Fate ? — no superstition ? ” 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 1 8 ; 

None whatever,” I replied, stiffly. “ I 
hear you are going to England.” 

I have thought of it. I shall probably 
sail within a fortnight.” 

Elizabeth heard him say this, as she 
came up to where we stood. She entered 
into a discussion of his plans, but he and 
I had no further talk alone. 

Several times during the next ten days 
he took Elizabeth and me to ride out 
through the Fenway and along the River- 
way. All through Brookline the blossom- 
laden fruit-trees perfumed the air. The 
world seemed steeped in rich verdancy and 
youth, — Nature’s perennial offering to 
mankind from her brimming cup. When 
man learns how to accept the riches 
Nature offers him he will know the secrets 
of life. Mr. Hartwell enjoyed a horse 
under him as much as I did. This I 
realised with a sigh. As he said, it seemed 
almost ungrateful to elude Fate, when she 
had once brought in contact two such 
congenial natures. 

I was worn out physically from the con- 
tinuous social labour I bad undergone, and 


1 88 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

would have been ready to go home, had it 
not been for a promised visit to Frances 
after my relatives left town a few days 
later. ‘ 

Dorothy had already gone, but returned 
to chaperon us at the Artists’ Festival, 
one of the unusual, and therefore interest- 
ing, social events. 

Poor Dorothy ! Since those days (not 
so very long ago, either) she has read her 
fate in weary numbers. Underneath her 
rippling, fun-seeking exterior there was 
always enough of her parents’ nature to 
have held her head level had she found a 
worthier mate. Her sense of duty took 
the form of immersion in whatever gave 
her husband the most pleasure. She 
spoiled Fred exactly as she did her pet 
dogs and her babies, losing her own dignity 
and most of her influence in the act. 
She never knew until it was too late 
that human hearts crave the unattainable. 
Ever since Christmas the small grief- 
wrinkles had been gathering about her 
eyes, hidden only too frequently by a 
laugh that rang unmirthfully. 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 1 89 

Wrinkles have been a special study of 
mine. After years of observation, I have 
become sufficiently astute to detect worry- 
wrinkles from grief-wrinkles at a glance. 
I knew Dorothy was worn to tatters, 
physically, by the social business of the 
past winter, but after I saw the heartache 
in her eyes I knew, also, how much hope- 
lessness there was in her apparent fatigue. 
Poor Dorothy ! The crash did not come 
for several months, but that night at the 
Artists’ Festival, where she had few rivals 
in beauty of feature and carriage, I caught 
one glimpse of the truth when she turned 
from a gay chattering group and saw Fred 
talking to a certain frisky debutante at 
some distance from us. At the moment I 
thought her unjust to Fred, but in the 
end it proved otherwise. Poor, frivolous 
Dorothy ! 

But to return, — for weeks previous we 
had been running in and out of the Art 
Students’ Association rooms, deciding with 
the committee on arrangements upon our 
costumes for the festival. The event was 
to partake of the character of a historical 


1 90 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

pageant, including the festivities attending 
the return of the Crusaders, the costumes 
being limited by the committee to such as 
were worn in Europe between the years 
1000 and 1450. 

Dorothy was dressed as an early Renais- 
sance beauty, her costume having been 
copied, with the aid of a New York artist, 
from an old French print. Elizabeth 
wore an antique peasant’s costume she 
had picked up in Switzerland, and its 
quaint, old-fashioned modesty became her 
rather severe style. Frances Thurlston 
got up my costume, and I never before 
saw her take such keen interest in any- 
thing. She had a chest of old fabrics, 
including several large squares of cloth-of- 
gold. She unearthed from among her 
possessions a portrait of a Florentine prin- 
cess, and from her fabrics, with the aid of 
several artists, Mr. Bradley, and a dress- 
maker, we produced what they all called 
‘‘a stunning effect.” 

Many of the costumes were more elab- 
orate than ours, but few were more 
picturesque. The men of the Tavern 





THE PROCESSION AT THE ARTISTS’ FESTIVAL. 




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HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 1 93 

Club went as Crusaders, and those of the 
Architectural Club as archers. At half- 
past nine the mediaeval procession accom- 
panying the Crusaders passed through 
Copley Hall, and an exceedingly gorgeous 
parade it was, impressing one anew with 
the sombre, disenchanting effect of modem 
costuming when contrasted in thought 
with the regal tones and strong harmonies 
of early-day attire. 

Copley Hall was transformed into an 
immense mediaeval tent, suggestive of Ivan- 
hoe, Richard the Lion-hearted, Rebecca, 
and Rowena, whose prototypes we saw 
reproduced in the procession. The walls 
of the tent were covered on three sides 
with interesting old tapestries, topped by a 
frieze of shields emblazoned with gold and 
heraldic devices. The remaining side was 
reserved for a raised dais, on which sat the 
patronesses of the occasion royally attired, 
wearing in shining masses the jewels which 
Boston women have the good taste to wear 
seldom and with discretion. 

At one side there was a stage made to 
resemble a bit of woodland, and beyond, 


194 her boston experiences 

through tent-like draperies, there was 
revealed an out-door scene, where the 
mediaeval games and pastimes were held 
after a short play had been given by ama- 
teurs of our acquaintance, without scenery, 
as was the custom in ancient times. After 
the play the scarabund, a rustic round, and 
several other quaint old dances were given 
with considerable spirit and rustic abandon. 
This antique dancing continued until the 
stroke of midnight, when, with swift transi- 
tion, the form of dance changed to that of 
our own times, and all the spectators joined 
in. Richard Coeur de Lion dancing the 
two-step was, I admit, ‘‘a terpsichorean 
anachronism,” as John Bradley said. 

No one is permitted to attend an Artists’ 
Festival except those costumed according 
to the dictates of the occasion, which is at 
every point picturesque and consistent 
with a particular design, thus creating a 
far more interesting effect than that of 
a fancy-dress ball, where the costumes are 
miscellaneous and without artistic purpose. 
John Bradley was one of the Crusaders, 
and his costume turned him into a fasci- 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES I95 

nating, dashing warrior-gallant; but, as I 
looked at him, I imagined Warren Hart- 
well, with his tall, erect figure and haughty 
features, arrayed in such a garb. He 
would have made the Coeur de Lion of the 
evening look insignificant. I wished for 
him — in Crusader’s costume. 

As Mr. Bradley took me through Allston 
Hall, converted into a garden surrounded 
by a lattice covered with roses, on our way 
to booths where refreshments were served, 
he commented upon my costume. Cloth- 
of-gold suits you,” he said, rather solemnly 
for him. “ That is your sphere, my prin- 
cess, high up above me ; but I can look and 
stretch out my hands.” 

“Are you taking to quotation like our 
friend. Saint Bermuda? ” I asked, looking at 
him uncertainly. 

“Yes,” he replied, quickly, “and I will 
finish with Browning : 

“ < No artist lives and loves, that longs not 

Once, and only once, and for one only. 

So to be the man, and leave the artist. 

Gain the man’s joy, miss the artist’s sorrow.’ ” 


196 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

‘‘Mr. Bradley,” I replied, sympathetically, 
“ your life is not, then, entirely made up of 
merriment and ‘ copy ’ ? ” 

“ You know better than that, but you 
cannot help me. Your life is cast upon the 
cloth-of-gold, mine is the colour of printer’s 
ink, — black. Our colours are certainly out 
of harmony.” He spoke bitterly. I said 
trite things in trying to answer uncon- 
sciously. He replied, almost brusquely : 
“ That is over now. Every man has his mo- 
ment of weakness. Come, let us guage the 
horn of plenty at the court of the Lion- 
hearted.” 

I do not believe people know much of 
the real John Bradley ; but still his moods 
are melodramatic, and his suffering more 
poetic than cruel. 

At that moment Mrs. Bobby Short swept 
up to us in an early Venetian costume of 
great magnificence and beauty. Her satel- 
lites followed close behind, and soon we 
were merged into their number. Together 
we passed into the viand booths. Upon no 
other occasion have I ever seen Bostonians 
in numbers unbend from their hereditary 



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HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 199 


stiffness so universally and gracefully. 
They seemed to dramatise themselves away 
from unbending Puritanism and lose them- 
selves in the' more ardent spirit of the past. 
Undoubtedly, the Artists’ Festival is un- 
equalled by any other form of social enter- 
tainment I have ever witnessed in America, 
in point of beauty, historical interest, and 
actual, vital pleasure. Every one taking 
part feels himself for once in his life a 
picture, a romance, or a poem ; therefore, 
he thoroughly enjoys himself in the imagi- 
nation, where the better part of joy finds 
source. 

The festival closed the social season, and 
my relatives left town. I went to Frances 
for the promised visit ; then she, Mr. 
Bradley, and I began to make a child’s holi- 
day of the springtime. She bore with him 
nobly, considering his sex. We sat on the 
benches in the Public Garden, where pansies 
and tulips had succeeded the earlier flowers 
in great, glowing masses, relieved by the 
intensely green grass and trees. We loi- 
tered along Commonwealth Avenue on 
‘‘the sunny side,” among the dozens of 


200 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

infants taking the air in their carriages, in 
charge of nurses chattering a conglomerate 
language, made up of French, Swedish, 
German, and English from the Emerald 
Isle. We even took trips about the lake in 
the garden on the swan-boats, and longer 
trips down the harbour to Hull and Nan- 
tasket. 

They were showing me how real Boston 
lives, — the great democracy from the city 
and suburbs to whom these open spaces of 
air and sunlight mean health and virtue. 
We climbed Blue Hill in Milton, and were 
rewarded by a glorious panoramic stretch 
of harbour, hills, and suburbs. Then we 
canoed on the upper Charles, where the 
reflections of its wooded banks and circui- 
tous loveliness remind one of the Thames 
above Richmond. This life suited me bet- 
ter than the cloth-of-gold, but I never 
confessed as much to Mr. Bradley, while 
Frances was happier than I had ever seen 
her before. 

One quiet morning, when the air was 
heavily still, portentous of a thunderstorm, 
I sat alone writing, Frances having gone 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 201 


out. The elevator boy shouted up through 
the tube that Miss Allston wished to see 
me. 

“ Elizabeth ! ” I exclaimed, mentally, as I 
shouted back permission for her to come 
up. “ What can Elizabeth be doing in town 
this hot day ? ” 

She came in looking whiter than usual 
and more set about the mouth, — the ex- 
pression which reminded one of her mother. 
Almost without preface she began : I 
have come especially to see you, Margaret. 
Are we alone ^ ” 

“ Yes. What is the matter } ” 

<< Warren Hartwell came down to spend 
Sunday with us before sailing next Thurs- 
day. Yesterday afternoon he and I went 
out on the rocks by the Ledge, — do you 
remember that place .J*” She stopped as 
though my recollection were of importance. 
‘Hs he drowned ” I cried, in suspense. 
“No,” she said, quickly. “You would 
care a great deal if he were, wouldn’t you ? ” 
“Yes,” I said, with relief. “I would 
care ; so would you or any of his friends.” 

“ Yes, his friends would care,” she re- 


202 HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 


plied, drawing her veil down from her 
sailor hat over her face. ‘‘ Warren and I 
have been more like brother and sister than 
mere friends all our lives, and that accounts 
for his talking to me as he did. He told 
me that he loved you hopelessly, Margaret, 
but that sometimes he was tempted to be- 
lieve you cared for him and held back for 
some inexplicable reason. He said he knew 
you were offended because he did not return 
your photograph the moment he discovered 
its identity, but he wished to know of me 
if I thought that trivial offence would 
keep from him a woman who truly loved 
him — ” 

“ Did he consider it honourable to show 
my picture at — I broke in; but she 
interrupted me. 

‘‘ Wait a moment. He did not show your 
picture at the club after he knew whose 
picture it was. I asked him that question, 
to his utter astonishment. He replied that, 
on the evening after finding it, he was talk- 
ing to Willoughby Winford at the club 
about photography, and, by chance, pro- 
duced the unknown photograph, as an 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 203 

excellent example of modern process, and 
asked Mr. Winford if he knew the original. 
That is all, Margaret, but out of that grew 
all the gossip. The first man gave one 
version, the second another, and the latter’s 
wife probably a third, hers of the lurid, 
yellow-journal type. You know how such 
stories gather mud as they run. I could 
never believe that of Warren — I know him 
too well ; but you doubted him, and still you 
love him ! How could you, Margaret } ” 

She leaned against the chair, throwing 
back her light jacket, as if for air. My 
cousin Elizabeth was to me at that moment 
a heroine. 

I stretched out my hand to her. She 
held it tightly in a clinging grasp, while her 
head leaned away from me as I said, rapidly : 
“Elizabeth, you have done us both the 
greatest service a woman could do. Tell me 
how to show my gratitude } I believe his 
word, if I did not believe in him against 
strong evidence — ” 

“Believe his word!” she interrupted. 
“ If you did not, your love would not be 
worth suffering for — I mean, his suffering 


204 BOSTON EXPERIENCES 

for. There is no man living more honour- 
able than Warren. I don’t see how any 
one could doubt him.” 

I bent over her hand, my eyes cast 
down. I knew my cousin Elizabeth to be 
more worthy the love of this man than I 
was, but I must not tell her so. 

‘‘He said he would write, asking for an 
interview before he sails. He thought it 
unlikely he could find you alone here,” she 
continued, in short breaths, as if the heat 
oppressed her, drawing away her hand as 
she spoke. 

“ I will write him at once when to 
come — ” 

“No, you must not,” she exclaimed, 
grasping my arm and looking at me with 
all of her indomitable will and pride in her 
face. “ You must never let him know that 
I came to you. I was afraid you might 
refuse him the interview; that is what I 
ask in return. Promise me.” 

“ Never in all our lives, Elizabeth .? ” 

“ Never so long as we all do live,” she 
replied, solemnly, grasping the back of a 
chair. 


HER BOSTON EXPERIENCES 205 

“I promise, Elizabeth,” and I leaned 
over and kissed her. 

I must go,” she said, hurriedly, looking 
at her watch, *^or I shall miss the noon 
train.” 

You are the best woman I ever knew, 
Elizabeth,” I began. 

Remember your promise. Good-bye,” 
she replied, and went down-stairs. 

As I sat meditating, too engrossed in the 
thought of what she had done to realise 
immediately the influence of her act upon 
my life, a special-delivery letter came from 
Warren Hartwell, asking for a few mo- 
ments with me, only long enough for him 
to make an important explanation. 

He came the following afternoon, and I 
committed myself to life with a Bostonian, 
though not without promise of his reform in 
several matters, particularly in the pronun- 
ciation of the word ‘Gdea.” He admitted 
that the ‘‘r” was as superfluous as his 
many other faults, whereupon I assured 
him he had fewer faults than any other 
Bostonian. But he only smiled in the pro- 
voking, incredulous way he has. 


206 her boston experiences 

What a good girl Elizabeth is ! ” he 
said, before leaving me. “We owe her 
a great deal for telling me how matters 
stood with you, Margaret. Elizabeth was 
always a good girl, conscientious and clear- 
headed.” 

His tone was so condescending that for 
a moment I was tempted ; but I remem- 
bered her face, and was true to her. All I 
said was : “ Neither one of us is worthy of 
Elizabeth Allston. She is a heroine.” 

“ I did not know you cared so much for 
her as that, dear,” he said. “ She has cer- 
tainly been a good friend to me all my life. 
I shall be glad to be her cousin, but I know 
a woman who is at least her equal in every 
way.” 

Even though I loved him, I pitied his 
lack of insight. With a woman’s inconsist- 
ency I should have been unhappy had he 
thought otherwise, and was unhappy be- 
cause he thought as he did — it seemed 
unfair to Elizabeth. 

When John Bradley congratulated me he 
merely said, “ I was not wrong about the 
cloth-of-gold. Hartwell is a lucky man.” 


HER BOSTON- EXPERIENCES 20 / 

Frances grunted considerably and berated 
men in general ; but I think her real griev- 
ance lay in believing that I was marrying 
the wrong man for my best happiness. 
She had only seen the cloth-of-gold side of 
Warren. I did not agree with her. I had 
learned that the Bostonian feels deeper 
than other men, even though he does not 
tell you so every day ; also, that he can 
unbend. 

Aunt Drusilla merely exclaimed, << The 
idear ! you two } ” but looked more than she 
spoke, voicing the opinion of Boston society 
when one of its members forgets himself 
and his connections enough to marry an 
outsider. 

I told Warren that if he had contem- 
poraneous connections I should not be 
certain of our future, but I considered 
myself equal to managing one Bostonian. 

“ You have shown that throughout our 
acquaintance,” he replied. “ In fact, as far 
as the reform movement goes, I don’t know 
but you are a pretty good Bostonian al- 
ready.” 

And perhaps he was right. However, I 


2o8 her boston experiences 

replied, “ The spirit of reform is induced by 
the crying need of mankind ; ” but he held 
out his arms and silenced me by replying, 
‘‘You have come to fill a crying need, an 
empty home, Margaret. Come and fill the 
need of my heart and you can finish your 
reform of its owner as you will.” 

“ Of its owner 1 ” 1 asked, into his left 
breast pocket. “ That would be I.” 

“Well, I don’t know but your tongue 
would be as good a starting-place for re- 
form as any. After that movement is set 
in motion there will be small difficulty in 
regulating your slave, generally known as 
Warren Hartwell.” 

My slave ! When the upright fall they 
sink low. When a Bostonian unbends he 
drops all the way to his knees. 

That was the moment of my revenge — 
and happiness. 


THE END. 


L. C. Page and Company's 
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Philip Winwood. (35tli thousand.) A Sketch of 
THE Domestic History of an American Captain in 
THE War of Independence, embracing events that 
OCCURRED between AND DURING THE YEARS 1 763 AND 

1785 IN New York and London. Written by his 
Enemy in War, Herbert Russell, Lieutenant in the 
Loyalist Forces. Presented anew by Robert Neilson 
Stephens, author of “ A Gentleman Player,” “ An Enemy to 
the King,” etc. 

With six full-page illustrations by E. W. D. Hamilton. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 400 pages . . . $1.50 

“ One of the most stirring and remarkable romances that has been published in a 
long while, and its episodes, incidents, and actions are as interesting and agreeable as 
they are vivid and dramatic. . . . The print, illustrations, binding, etc., are worthy 
of the tale, and the author and his publishers are to be congratulated on a literary 
work of fiction which is as wholesome as it is winsome, as fresh and artistic as it is 
interesting and entertaining from first to last paragraph.” — Boston Times. 

Breaking the Shackles. By Frank Barrett. 

Author of “ A Set of Rogues.” 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 350 pages . $1.50 

“The story opens well, and maintains its excellence throughout. . . . The 
author’s triumph is the greater in the unquestionable interest and novelty which he 
achieves. The pictures of prison life are most vivid, and the story of the escape 
most thrilling.” — The Freeman's Journal, Lottdon. 

The Progress of Pauline Kessler. By 

Frederic Carrel. 

Author of “ Adventures of John Johns.” 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 350 pages . ^1.50 

A novel that will be widely read and much discussed. A power- 
ful sketch of an adventuress who has much of the Becky Sharpe in 
her. The story is crisply written and told with directness and in- 
sight into the ways of social and political life. The characters are 
strong types of the class to which they belong. 


2 


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Ada Vernham, Actress. By Richard marsh. 

Author of “ Frivolities,” “ Tom Ossington’s Ghost,” etc. 

Library lamo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 300 pages . $1.50 

This is a new book by the author of “Frivolities,” which was 
extremely well received last season. It deals with the inside life of 
the London stage, and is of absorbing interest. 


The Wallet of Kai Lung. By Ernest Bramah. 

Library lamo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 350 pages . |i-SO 

This is the first book of a new writer, and is exceedingly well 
done. It deals with the fortunes of a Chinese professional story- 
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suggests somewhat the rich Oriental coloring of the Arabian 
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Edward Barry: South Sea Pearler. By Louis 
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Author of “ By Reef and Palm,” “ Ridan, the Devil,” etc. 

With four full-page illustrations by H. C. Edwards. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 300 pages . $1.50 

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scene of which is laid in the Lagoon Islands of the Pacific. 

This is the first complete novel from the pen of Mr. Becke, and 
readers of his collections of short stories will quickly recognize that 
the author can write a novel that will grip the reader. Strong, and 
even tragic, as is his novel in the main, “ Edward Barry ” has a 
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trayed. 

Unto the Heights of Simplicity. By jo- 

HANNES ReIMERS. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages . . . J55 i.25 

We take pleasure in introducing to the reading public a writer of 
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ing for its own sake that the book gives no suspicion of being a 
problem novel. The descriptions of natural scenery are idyllic in 
their charm, and form a fitting background for the Icve story. 


LIST OF NEW FICTION 


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The Black Terror. A Romance of Russia. By John 
K. Leys. 

With frontispiece by Victor A. Searles. 

Library__i2mo, cloth decorative, 350 pages . . . ^1.50 

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in Russia, disguised as a novel, while its startling incidents and 
strange denouement would only confirm the old adage that “ truth 
is stranger than fiction,” and that great historical events may be 
traced to apparently insignificant causes. The hero of the story 
is a young Englishman, whose startling resemblance to the Czar is 
taken advantage of by the Nihilists for the furtherance of their 
plans. 


The Baron’s Sons. By Maurus Jokai. 

Author of “Black Diamonds,” “The Green Book,” “Pretty 
Michal,” etc. Translated by Percy F. Bicknell. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, with photogravure 
portrait of the author, 350 pages . . . . ;? 5 i. 5 o 

An exceedingly interesting romance of the revolution of 1848, 
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and Vienna, and in the armies of the Austrians and Hungarians. 
It follows the fortunes of three young Hungarian noblemen, whose 
careers are involved in the historical incidents of the time. The 
story is told with all of Jokai’s dash and vigor, and is exceedingly 
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Slaves of Chance. By ferrier langworthy. 

With five portraits of the heroines, from original drawings by 
Hiel. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 350 pages . ^51.50 

As a study of some of the realities of London life, this novel is 
one of notable merit. The slaves of chance, and, it might be added, 
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whose means are scarcely sufficient, even living as they do, in a 
quiet way and in a quiet London street, to make both ends meet. 
Dealing, as he does, with many sides of London life, the writer 
sketches varied types of character, and his creations are cleverly 
defined. He tells an interesting tale with delicacy and in a fresh, 
attractive style. 


4 


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Her Boston Experiences. By Margaret Allston 

(nom de plume). 

With eighteen full-page illustrations from drawings by Frank 
O. Small, and from photographs taken especially for the 
book. 

Small i2mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 225 pages . $1.25 

A most interesting and vivacious tale, dealing with society life 
at the Hub, with perhaps a tinge of the flavor of Vagabondia. The 
story has appeared serially in The Ladies^ Home Journal, where it 
was received with marked success. We are not as yet at liberty to 
give the true name of the author, who hides her identity under the 
pen name, Margaret Allston, but she is well known in literature. 

Memory Street. By Martha Baker Dunn. 

Author of “ The Sleeping Beauty,” etc. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages . . . $1.25 

An exceedingly beautiful story, delineating New England life and 
character. The style and interest will compare favorably with the 
work of such writers as Mary E. Wilkins, Kate Douglas Wiggin, 
and Sarah Orne Jewett. The author has been a constant con- 
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work will assure welcome for her first novel. 

Winifred. A Story of the Chalk Cliffs. By S. 
Baring Gould. 

Author of “ Mehala,” etc. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 350 pages . $1.50 

A striking novel of English life in the eighteenth century by this 
well known writer. The scene is laid partly in rural Devonshire, 
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At the Court of the King ; Being Romances of 

France. By G. Hembert Westley, editor of “ For Love’s 
Sweet Sake.” 

With a photogravure frontispiece from an original drawing. 

Library 1 2mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages . . . $1.25 

Despite the prophecies of some literary experts, the historical 
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many recent successes. We feel justified, consequently, in issuing 
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the Courts of the French Kings. 


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God’s Rebel. By Hulbert Fuller. 

Author of “ Vivian of Virginia.” 

Library lamo, cloth decorative, 375 pages . . . ^1.25 

A powerful story of sociological questions. The scene is laid in 
Chicago, the hero being a professor in “Rockland University,” 
whose protest against the unequal distribution of wealth and the 
wretched condition of workmen gains for him the enmity of the 
“ Savior Oil Company,” through whose influence he loses his posi- 
tion. His after career as a leader of laborers who are fighting 
to obtain their rights is described with great earnestness. The 
character drawing is vigorous and varied, and the romantic plot 
holds the interest throughout. The Albany Journal is right in 
pronouncing this novel “ an unusually strong story.” It can hardly 
fail to command an immense reading public. 


A Georgian Actress. By Pauline Bradford Mackie. 

Author of “ Mademoiselle de Berny,” “Ye Lyttle Salem 
Maide,” etc. 

With four full-page illustrations from drawings by E. W. D. 
Hamilton. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 300 pages . $1.50 

An interesting romance of the days of George HI., dealing with 
the life and adventures of a fair and talented young play-actress, 
the scene of which is laid in England and America. The success of 
Miss Mackie’s previous books will justify our prediction that a new 
volume will receive an instant welcome. 


God — The King — fly Brother. A Romance. 

By Mary F. Nixon. 

Author of “ With a Pessimist in Spain,” “ A Harp of Many 
Chords,” etc. 

With a frontispiece by H. C. Edwards. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages . . . $1.25 

An historical tale, dealing with the romantic period of Edward 
the Black Prince. The scene is laid for the most part in the 
sunny land of Spain, during the reign of Pedro the Cruel — 
the ally in war of the Black Prince. The well-told story records 
the adventures of two young English knight-errants, twin brothers, 
whose family motto gives the title to the book. The Spanish maid, 
the heroine of the romance, is a delightful characterization, and the 
love story, with its surprising yet logical denouement, is enthralling. 


6 


L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY’S 


Punchinello. By Florence Stuart. 

Library lamo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 325 pages . $1.50 

A love story of intense power and pathos. The hero is a hunch- 
back (Punchinello), who wins the love of a beautiful young girl. 
Her sudden death, due indirectly to his jealousy, and the discovery 
that she had never faltered in her love for him, combine to unbalance 
his mind. The poetic style relieves the sadness of the story, and 
the reader is impressed with the power and brilliancy of its concep- 
tion, as well as with the beauty and grace of the execution. 


The Golden Fleece. Translated from the French of 

Amedee Achard, author of “The Huguenot’s Love,” etc. 

Illustrated by Victor A. Sea^^les. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 450 pages . 

Amedee Achard was a contemporary writer of Dumas, and his 
romances are very similar to those of that great writer. “The 
Golden Fleece ” compares favorably with “ The Three Musketeers ” 
and the other D’Artagnan romances. The story relates the adven- 
tures of a young Gascon gentleman, an officer in the army sent by 
Louis XIV. to assist the Austrians in repelling the Turkish Invasion 
under the celebrated Achmet Kiuperli. 

The Good Ship York. By W. Clark Russell. 

Author of “The Wreck of the Grcsvenor^^ “A Sailor’s Sw^iet- 
heart,” etc. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 350 pages ^i-5o 

A romantic and exciting sea tale, equal to the best work of this 
famous writer, relating the momentous voyage of the clipper ship 
York, and the adventures that befell Julia Armstrong, a passenger, 
and George Hardy, the chief mate. 

“ Mr. Russell has no rival in the line of marine fiction.” — Mail and Express. 

Tom Ossington’s Ghost. By Richard Marsh. 

Author of “ Frivolities,” “ Ada Vernham, Actress,” etc. Illus- 
trated by Harold Pifford. 

Library 12 mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 325 pages . $1.50 

“ I read ‘ Tom Ossington’s Ghost ’ the other night, and was afi-aid to go up-stairs 
in the dark after it.” — Truth. 

“An entrancing book, but people with weak nerves had better not read it at 
night.” — To-day. 

“ Mr. Marsh has been inspired by an entirely original idea, and has worked it out 
with great ingenuity. We like the weird but not repulsive story better than anything 
ke has ever done.” — World. 


LIST OF NEW FICTION 


7 


The Qlory and Sorrow of Norwich. By 

M. M. Blake. 

Author of “The Blues and the Brigands,” etc., etc., with 
twelve full-page illustrations. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 315 pages . $1.50 

The hero of this romance, Sir John de Reppes, is an actual 
personage, and throughout the characters and incidents are instinct 
with the spirit of the age, as related in the chronicles of Froissart. 
Its main claim for attention, however, is in the graphic representa- 
tion of the age of chivalry which it gives, forming a series of brilliant 
and fascinating pictures of mediaeval England, its habits of thought 
and manner of life, which live in the mind for many a day after 
perusal, and assist to a clearer conception of what is one of the most 
charming and picturesque epochs of history. 

The nistress of flaidenwood. By hulbekt 

Fuller. 

Author of “ Vivian of Virginia,” “ God’s Rebel,” etc. 

Library 1 2mo, cloth decorative, 350 pages . . . $1.50 

A stirring historical romance of the American Revolution, the 
scene of which for the most part being laid in and about the debatable 
ground in the vicinity of New York City. 

Dauntless, a Tale of a Lost Cause. By Captain Ewan 
Martin. 

Author of “ The Knight of King’s Guard.” 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 400 pages, illustrated . ^1.50 

A stirring romance of the days of Charles I. and Cromwell in 
England and Ireland. In its general character the book invites 
comparison with Scott’s “Waverley.” It well sustains the reputa- 
tion gained by Captain Martin from “ The Knight of King’s Guard.” 

The Flame of Life. (Il Fuoco.) Translated from 

the Italian of Gabriel D’Annunzio, author of “ Triumph of 
Death,” etc., by Kassandra Vivaria, author of “Via 
Lucis.” 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 350 pages . . . i^i.50 

This is the first volume in the Third Trilogy, “The Romances 
of the Pomegranate,” of the three announced by the great Italian 
writer. We were fortunate in securing the book, and also in securing 
the services as translator of the talented author of “ Via Lucis,” 
herself an Italian by birth. 






JUL 16 '900 


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